


The Blooded

by Otoshigo



Series: USUK - Oneshots [14]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cowboy!America - Freeform, Fae & Fairies, Historical AU, Human Names, M/M, Post-American Civil War, Post-English Civil War, Time Travel, USUK - Freeform, stuart!england
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7822048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otoshigo/pseuds/Otoshigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England has been sucked into years of civil war and is slowly recovering under the reign of Oliver Cromwell.  A young country gentleman discovers (and is saved by) a strange man in the greenwood.  Little does he know how the chance meeting will lead down roads of blood and darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. England

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t believe I finally finished this. I had thought I was just going to do a one-shot. Then 47 pages and hours and hours of research later (only the most notable references I’ve listed, there was a ton more), I came up with this. I hope that you all enjoy this little labor of love.
> 
> This does relate to this post: http://otoshigo.tumblr.com/post/146107819199/this-plot-bunny-wont-leave-me-alone-but-i-have

It was one of those rarest of spring days in the English countryside.  Not a cloud marred the April sky, the bright sun casting the land in hues of emerald.  A young blond Englishman sat astride his horse, looking upon all that he owned.  Wide open pastures spread out before him in the rolling hills, dotted by small villages stricken with disease and poverty.  Deceptively peaceful despite the battles that had been waged upon the land in recent years.  It settled upon the young gentleman’s shoulders like a heavy mantle, responsibility weighing upon him as never it had before.

The gentleman, Arthur, turned his gaze from the pictorial setting and to the wood that was the object of his excursion.  He had received reports from the local commission of the peace that there had been an unnatural storm about a month prior.  Stories of green lightning and spiraling clouds, signs of Divine wrath visiting upon little Lacanshire.  Arthur had (for better or worse) slept through the evil storm in the safety of his manor and was apt to believe that the common folk were making tall tales as they were wont to do.

However, then came the reports of an unnatural fog that seemed to cloy to this particular wood, which was setting all of the farmers on edge.  Whispers arose of another recurrence of miasma, the Black Death and divine wrath.  Yet no one dared to go anywhere near the wood.

Save for Arthur, who now thought himself a fool for being skeptic of country superstition.

Arthur liked not the look of it, but that had been reportedly where the miasma had been sighted.  If it was true.  If the Black Death had come to his borough, he need know.  Steeling himself, he put a gold coin upon his tongue to protect him from the bad air, then made a cross over his heart.  Slowly, he guided his horse along the road into the patch of trees.

The pastureland disappeared from view, leaving Arthur eerily enclosed by the wood.  His unease grew, but spurred his horse gently along to try to find any anomalies.  Beratements began to whisper at the back of his mind that he ought to have brought someone along with him.  A clergyman or at least a servant.  What were he to do if the source of the miasma were witchcraft or a Devil’s relic.  Oh no, he just had to prove himself as the new lord of the manor.  Completely lost all sense of self-preservation.

As he distracted himself with such thoughts, a large stony outcrop yawned up above the road, blotting out the sun.  There was a curious object in the road.  Something that looked like a piece of blue cloth.  To take a better look, he dismounted from his horse and glanced at it.  It was a knotted piece of beautiful blue ribbon.  Frowning, he picked it up to examine it, attempting unsuccessfully to undo it.

He should have noticed it was too quiet.  That not even the crickets or birds sounded in the trees.  He did notice the howls of men descending from the wood, graplling his arms before he could find his sword.  His horse screamed and bucked, trying to get away as his master was unceremoniously thrown into the hands of some common thugs.  Before he realized it, the tip of a dagger pressed up underneath his chin.  A hooded face leaned in close, what patches of skin shewn heavily scarred.

“Well, look wha’ we ‘ave, boys,” the presumed leader jeered.  “I think we managed to catch ourselves a little lord.  Wha’ are you doin’ all on your lonesome out ‘ere, yer worship?” he asked, rolling the title off his tongue like an insult.

“Take thy hands from me, thou brute,” Arthur snapped, wrestling against the hands that bound him behind his back.  He looked around and counted at least six within sight, probably more, if he heard the extra horse hooves right.  “Have the people of this county naught been through enough that thou wilst take advantage?”

“Talkin’ ‘igh and mighty fer someone at our mercy,” the thug replied with a cruel smirk.  He jabbed the dagger in a little deeper, nicking the skin and letting blood drip down Arthur’s neck.  “Now, ‘ere’s wha’ we’re gonna do.  Yer gonna take us back to yer manor.  Yer gonna-”

A gunshot rang out, interrupting him.  Before his next heartbeat, Arthur thought that he had been the one shot.  Then he realized that the man in front of him was staring at him with vacant eyes, blood coursing down around his ears.  Dead he stood, before his body crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.  The horses and the men howled around him, trying to find the source of the gunfire, when suddenly more shots burst into the air in ambush.  Chaos ensued, Arthur forgotten as the men tried to duck for cover.

Then just like that, the firestorm ceased and around him the highwaymen dropped like flies.  All of them dead.  Impossibly fast, the life winked right out of them in less than a breath.  It was a massacre.

Arthur could make no sound now, fallen back on his haunches as he surveyed the pile of dead flesh.  To be sure, he had seen his fair share of blood, but _never_ had he seen death so swift it was like the divine hand of God sweeping over them.  It rattled him to the core, his only excuse for still sitting on his arse like a frozen rabbit when he heard a rustle from the underbrush through the ringing of his ears.

A single figure stepped out of the dense wood and into the open.  At once, his apparel shewn him to be yet another highwayman, dressed for rough nights in the wood and away from the law.  The first thing that struck him was just how _tall_ the man was.  The pistol at his hip did not escape Arthur’s notice, nor did the long sleek instrument across his back that was undoubtedly a musket.

“Cuss’d wasta bullets,” the highwayman muttered to himself, as he toed at the dead men.  Kneeling down, he sifted through the robbers’ purses for coin or other useful treasures.  Now that he was closer, Arthur was better able to study him, although he kept an ear out for the others who were no doubt still hiding in the brush.  The man’s apparel was plain but incredibly fine for someone desperate to resort to highway robbery.  He had a wide brimmed hat, a great long leather overcoat, richly dyed blue shirt, grey waistcoat of Persian fashion, and tightly fitted breeches made of an indigo material he had never seen before.  He wore fine green tinted spectacles over his eyes and around his face was a red kerchief so vivid that Arthur had thought his face covered with blood, making him gasp softly.

At the sound, the highwayman suddenly looked up over his spectacles, locking his gaze on Arthur.  The gentleman froze where he sat, as much from the intensity of those steely blue eyes as from being noticed.  Then in an act that was almost genteel, the highwayman tipped his broad brimmed hat in greeting.  “Howdy, stranger.”

Well, it appeared as though he would be spared Death’s cold blade today.

“I’ll be getting those horses,” the stranger informed him with an accent that was both familiar and utterly bizarre.  “If you don’ mind me taking them as payment for savin’ yer hide.”

“I... yes, of course, sirrah,” Arthur replied hesitantly, after deciphering the gist of the odd tongue.  “I woulde be pleased if your bande woulde hath them.”

“My band?” the man asked wryly, his smile hidden away behind the colorful kerchief creeping up to his eyes.  “Ain’t got no band.  Jus’ me.”

Arthur started at that, then he scoffed before he could stop himself.  “Right.  As though one man coulde fire ten perfect shots in less time than one takes a breath.  Unless you hath eight more pistols hidden away in the bush.”

Much to Arthur’s irritation, the stranger let out a chuckle, but didn’t elaborate.  Instead, he turned his gaze turned to the horse trail.  “Well, I best be getting after those horses.  Gunfire’ll ’ave sent ‘em packing.  Don’ spose y’know if there’s a bounty on these ‘ere cockchafers, is there?”

Once again, it took the gentleman a solid pause to understand what the man spake.  He knew the commoners’ speech was coarse, but such was not the case for this fellow.  His speech carried an odd mix of Scotch, Welsh and foreign accents, but there was enough ease in his tongue that he must be a natural born English speaker.  His diction, however, was befuddling.

Seeing as though the man (and his band) were not intent on doing him any ill, Arthur pushed himself up to his feet and brushed the dirt from his his sleeves and rump.  “I doubt that the village constable woulde be so free with his coin,” he replied as he looked the man up and down, “or that you woulde find much coin to be had for your horses.”

After a moment’s decision, Arthur said, “However, if you are truly on your own then I will be glad to take you in and rewarde you for your good service.”  It was impulsive to be sure, but this odd man intrigued him.  Not to mention had saved his life.  There were enough eyes in the Hall besides to make sure his guest kept peace.  “My name is Arthur de Kirkland,” he said, giving the man a brief bow.  “Tis a pleasure to meet you.”

The stranger regarded him a moment, before he took off his hat and revealed a head of tousled blond hair.  He pulled the kerchief down from his face, revealing a startlingly handsome visage unmarked by pox.  Hell’s bells, Arthur might even want to keep him around just to look at.

The stranger held out an empty leather-gloved hand, a gesture of peace.  “Name’s Alfred Jones.  Pleasure’s all mine.”

Arthur could not help but smile at the odd turn of phrase.  Though he was still uncertain what sort of stock the man came from, he took the man’s hand and gave it a firm shake.  “Jones?” he queried as he let go.  At least there was something familiar about it.  “Dost you hail from Wales?”

“Bit further than that,” Jones replied, sliding the broad-brimmed hat back on.  At the gentleman’s expectant look, he finally offered, “...Virginia, ‘riginally.”

“Virginia!” Arthur cried in satisfied epiphany.  “The colony.  Oh yes, of course.  That makes perfect sense.”  He noticed the troubled look on the man’s face, but he was bubbling with too many questions to care.  “What is it like there?  Are you a frontiersman?  Didst you fight natives?  What brings you here to England?”  Between the politics and the plague, it seemed that more people were _leaving_ England than coming back.

“That’s the question of the century, ain’t it,” Jones replied cryptically.  Before Arthur could ask him to elaborate, he turned away and said, “Best be getting those horses ‘fore they’re miles away.  ‘Cluding yers, I reckon.  Stay here.  I’ll be back.”

With that, the Virginian took off into the greenwood, leaving Arthur with the uncertainty that he was still being watched.  Despite what Jones said, he _knew_ there had to be other men in the brush, or at least more firearms.  To achieve what his rescuer did on his own was nigh impossible.  Against his better judgement, he stayed with the dead whilst the stranger went off to collect his reward.

Breathing shakily, Arthur sat on a boulder and surveyed the massacre and thought of how close he had come to sharing the same fate.  He had very nearly left his family without a proper heir, save a distant relation in Scotland.  Not even a wife to pass his lands onto.  His grandfather was likely rolling in his grave, having died trying to impress upon him the importance of lineage.  Arthur had thought himself too young to think upon such things, especially when he had to get used to responsibilities that he had never expected to have as a second son.  Perhaps this was a sign that he ought to take a wife, and soon.

Jones returned, having left Arthur to his grim thoughts for nearly an hour.  He had found Arthur’s mare and the two stallions of the dead men, one of which he was riding.  They nickered nervously at the corpses, but his mare did not protest as Arthur brought himself back up to his saddle.  “Thank you,” he said, as Jones handed over the reigns.  “I had forgotten to express my gratitude before.  Please pardon my manners.”

“It’s quite alright,” the Virginian replied, giving him a faint nod.  “Anyone would be shook up.  ‘Spose it was lucky I was nearby.”

“I do not believe in luck,” Arthur retorted softly, still haunted by his gloomy thoughts.  “I see the Grace of God in you, for saving not only me, but my legacy.  For that, you will always hath my gratitude.”  The words seemed to shock the stranger, who stared at him wide eyed silence.  “My apologies if I do offende,” Arthur added, unsure of the man’s reaction.

However, Jones merely shook his head to dismiss the thought and gave him a handsome smile.  “I was jus’ thinkin’ that yer a pretty serious fella.”  Arthur wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, when the stranger went on a different tack.  “Be gettin’ dark soon.  Should we mosey on out?”

Arthur looked the man over with some skepticism.  The horse carried saddlebags, bedroll, and a stiff rope, but otherwise there seemed no signs of the other firearms than what the man already carried.  “I don’ have any more guns,” Jones insisted, both amused and exasperated as he correctly read the gentleman’s thoughts.  “And there ain’t no ambush waiting.  God’s honest truth.”

At His name, the young gentleman was forced to relent.  “If you insist,” Arthur sighed, before he turned his horse back towards his manor.  “My manor is not far.  We shoulde be back in time for supper.”

At the mention of food, Jones’ stomach made a hungry gurgle that startled them both.  Red with embarrassment, the Virginian scratched at the nape of his neck.  “Sorry, been a week since I’ve had a hot meal.”

Arthur blinked, but then a slow smile spread over his lips.  “Quite alright,” he replied, “you at least deserve your fill after what you did today.”  With that, he spurred his horse on to lead them out of the wood, meanwhile thinking of how comely Alfred Jones looked with a blush upon his cheeks.

~o~

In an hour the pair returned to Kirkland Hall just as the sun was beginning its afternoon descent.  The two story brick home stood like a beacon against the otherwise shambling villages nearby, demonstrating the continued success of the family’s estates despite the recent political state of affairs.  A modest garden surrounded it, creating a subtle barrier from the manor and the outside world.  As they came up to the doors, the usual servants came to attend to them.

If his servants took exception to the arrival of the new armed man, they certainly did not show it.  Instead, they silently took their horses to be stabled and groomed, whilst Arthur ordered Jones’ belongings to be sent up to the Green Room and to send for the village constable in the morning.  Like him though, they did take a pause to study the stranger’s bizarre apparel and his unusual height.  It was a common theme as Arthur led the way into the great hall, where the pair of them might have more chance to speak before supper.  Not before Arthur ordered some salted fish, bread and wine for his guest to at least settle his stomach in the meantime.

Once he was sure that Jones was reasonably comfortable, Arthur settled in his favorite chair by the fireplace where his two hounds found him and curled up at his feet.  He was more tired from the day’s events than he realized, fatigue beginning to settle into his bones.  His guest looked to the two hounds, taking a sip of wine.  He didn’t seem to care for it, but he had the grace not to complain.  “What’s their names?” he asked, nodding to the dogs.

“Demetrius and Lysander,” Arthur answered with a smile.  “From one of my favourite works.”

“Shakespeare?” Jones guessed.  “The one with the fairies, right?”

At this, Arthur frowned.  “Yes, Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he said slowly.  “Hath Shakespeare already made it to the colonies?”

“I... musta picked it up somewhere,” Jones replied evasively, once again looking uncomfortable.  It shamed Arthur to have brought him to that state.

“My apologies, I was merely surprised,” he said gently.  “Pleasantly so, of course.  I did not expect that there woulde be much interest for culture in such untamed lands.”  Or that this fellow could _read,_ to be quite frank.  Though he knew better than to voice _that_ aloud.  Considering that he thought for a time that the colonies were his only future, he ought to be more humble.

Deciding this was not a productive line of thought, Arthur’s attention turned to the musket and pistol that his rescuer had settled against his chair.  “I hath never seen such beautifully crafted firearms,” he said, looking to the sleek and polished instruments.  “They seem so small and fine that one woulde think them ornamental.  And of a design I hath never seen before.”  Indeed the pistol looked quite strange, akin to an exotic snaphaunce revolver (which did at least explain how Alfred could rescue him singlehandedly).  Even the musket was odd with additional levers and complications unknown to him.  “Perhaps you coulde shew me how you shoot them.”

At once, Jones’ demeanor grew even more guarded.  “You didn’ get enuffa that today?” he asked as he took an immodest bite of bread.

“I did not see much of the marksmanship from your perspective,” Arthur replied, his curiosity only growing.  “I coulde take out my father’s musket if you woulde make it a contest.”

However, his words did nothing to assuage the troubled expression.  Slowly, Jones shook his head, “Sorry.  I’m thinkin’... I best be savin’ my bullets for more ‘n showin’ off.”  There was a finality in that tone that stayed Arthur’s tongue from saying he could easily replace the balls and powder for him.

Even so, Arthur was starting to get a bit vexed by how mysterious his rescuer insisted on being, when Jones decided to strike up another conversation.  “So, you live here all on yer own?” he asked gesturing to the empty great hall, “I mean, ‘sides yer servants.”

It was always a sobering thought, diverting his attention from his vexation.  “My grandfather died recently, leaving me as head of the family.  My mother died in childbirthe along with an infant sister.  My father...” Arthur started, before the words stuck to his throat.  As they always seemed to when it came to his father and elder brother.  Not because of any special affection for his departed family, but one needed to mind one’s words in strange company.  Then again, was not Virginia known for being a safe haven to the royalist cause?  After a pause in which Jones patiently waited, Arthur finally asked, “Hath you... any opinion on our civil war?”

Jones started as if struck, but recovered himself through a long draught of his wine.  Even so, it was a bizarre reaction.  “No,” the Virginian replied thickly, “not on the one here.  And I promise that I won’t breathe a word of whatever you’d like to tell me.  Or don’ tell me.  Don’ matter.  I’ll understand.”

There was a strange quality to the stranger’s eyes just then.  Haunted and ageless.  Of one who had seen more than his fair share in his lifetime.  It made Arthur wonder.  How much of the war had spread to the colonies?  Was it no longer a haven of refugees guarded by sympathetic cavaliers?  Even so, something in Jones’ gaze both grieved and comforted him, compelling him to speak.

“My father and elder brother fought for the king,” Arthur spake softly.  “They both died at Marston Moor.  Mercifully, Parliament let our estates go unmolested as my grandfather disregarded them as foolish boys.”

“You didn’ fight?” Jones asked in gentle tones, his nourishment all but forgotten.

Arthur shook his head and laughed ruefully, “Much too young.  Besides, we coulde not hath all three heirs run off to war, now coulde we?”  And what good it did to have a spare, in the end.  “Now I need to disavow them as well or else...”

A sombre pause fell as the Virginian digested this.  Then as if in response to Arthur’s quiet pain, he offered in a rare moment of candor, “I was too young too.  Went to the front anyway.  Stupidest thing I ever did.  Watched brothers fighting brothers, families torn apart.  In the end, I lost everything and everyone.”  Then he shook his head at a distant memory.  “Had to move out West to get away from it all.”

“You seem to hath missed the marke,” Arthur jested gently as Lysander took a head to his knee and he scratched it absently.

That sparked a bark of laughter, alleviating the dark mood.  “So I did,” the Virginian agreed with a smile.  “Did my fair share out West though,” he said, once again speaking of _West_ as though it were an idea rather than a direction.  “Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“You will hath to tell me how you made it back to England then, Mr. Jones,” Arthur mused, his imagination rife with thoughts of the untamed wilderness, treasure and native tribes.

“I’ll let y’know soon as I figure it out meself,” Jones replied.  “And please, call me Al.”

Now Al sounded entirely too familiar.  A pet name for a loved one.  However, Arthur supposed he could meet him partway.  “Alfred then,” he conceded.  “You may call me Arthur.”

“Was plannin’ on it,” Alfred replied somewhat cheekily.

It was too good-natured for the young gentleman to take much offense.  Arthur merely tutted at him, before he sensed his servants on the other side of the hall putting down dishes for supper.  The air was soon filled with the smells of hot bread, roasted meat, and sweet almond tart.  “Well, I promised you a hot meal,” Arthur said as he waved the hounds off of him and rose to his feet.  Alfred eagerly followed, obviously still hungry.  At the table, the young lord picked up one of the utensils and held it out.  “By the by, I hath taken to using this new Italian instrument at the table.  It’s called-”

“A fork, I know,” Alfred replied absently, looking down at his own plate setting with a frown.  Unfazed for long, he went up to his things and returned with his own utensils as proper guests should.  A fork among them, though it was strangely curved and four prongs instead of two.  Alfred seated himself down and used his own fork to eat with far more ease than Arthur had yet mastered.  Yet completely forgetting about saying Grace.  Or waiting until the lord of manor took his first share.  Though Arthur cared naught, it was uncouth all the same.  Truly a bizarre mix of the savage and the civilized.

“You will never cease to surprise me,” Arthur said amazed.  He dug into the roasted veal, tossing bones to the floor for his hounds to pick up.  He only half paid attention to the food, his mind and eyes wandering to the stranger with whom he shared his meal.  Sometime during the repast, Alfred had shrugged off his leather coat and took off his broad hat, leaving him in just the fine blue shirt and grey waistcoat, bright red kerchief still wrapped around his corded neck.  It was easier now to see how well adventuring seemed to suit the Virginian with his incredibly tall and athletic build.  The foreign waistcoat only accentuated the broadness of his shoulders.  His tanned skin was like warm honey from a lifetime in the sun.  Moreover, he moved with such fluid ease for one of such height, as though rough life had sanded away any unnecessary impediments to his natural grace.

Arthur silently chided his poet’s heart.  Yet it still struck him how very much he would like Alfred to stay.  Despite his better judgement.  Suddenly blue eyes flicked up to his and he started as the Virginian caught him staring.  Coughing awkwardly, the young gentleman nodded towards Alfred’s sleeve.  “I was just admiring your attire,” he lied.  “Tis of deceptively fine quality for something so plain.  I woulde nearly accuse you of being a Puritan, though you do not reek of moral self-righteousness.  Moreover, I hath never seen fabric quite like your breeches.”  Some part of him wanted to reach out to touch it, but he could not stoop to feeling up the man’s leg with such scant justification.

“I do okay for myself,” Alfred said, not seeming to notice his gaze.  “Well, did _,_ ” he amended, seeming to recall his strange circumstances in coming here.  “Or _will_ ,” he muttered, perplexing himself as much as his host.  Shrugging, he washed the veal back with more wine.  “Speaking of, thank you for yer hospitality.  Yer the first kind face I seen since comin’ here.”

“You did neede save my life first,” Arthur reminded him with a smile.  “I do apologize for my fellow countrymen, however.  Wars hath a way of bringing out the barbary in people, as I am sure you can imagine.”  Which still begged the question as _why_ Jones was here, though he knew better than to ask again. Even so, he meant to find out.  “By the by, you are welcome to stay for as long as you like,” Arthur said as the servants came to clear the dishes, though they cast curious glances at the bones on Alfred’s plate.  “If you hath nowhere to go, and I suspect that you do not, I coulde make use of someone like you in my householde.”

Alfred arched an eyebrow, giving the young gentleman a hard look that immediately made him doubt himself.  “As what?  I ain’t no coon butler,” he said with a derision that made Arthur’s skin crawl.

“H-hardly,” Arthur replied, wondering what he did to set the Virginian on edge (and what on earth was a _coon butler_?).  More cautiously, he said, “I woulde expect that someone of your experience woulde be put to far more use as a bodyguarde?”  There was more hesitation in his voice than he cared for as he prayed that the reviled position was some sort of domestic post.  Then again, Alfred’s clothes and weapons were so fine, perhaps he used to be part of the landed gentry in the colonies and was merely down on his luck now.  Meaning the offer was a slap in the face.  Hell’s bells, what had he done?

His worry appeared unwarranted as Alfred relaxed a moment later.  “I actually do have somewhere to be,” he said, a note of apology in his voice.  “Trouble is, I ain’t got any idea how to get back.  Appears I’m plum stuck ‘til I can rightly figure it out.  So I’ll decline yer offer to become one of yer servants.  But if yer offerin’ food n’ a bed, I’ll make sure no trouble comes yer way long as I’m here.”

Slowly, Arthur relaxed himself and smiled.  So really all that Alfred Jones truly objected to was losing the peerage of an honoured guest, while gaining the sanctuary and security of a tenured servant.  It was unconventional, but Arthur hardly thought that Jones would budge from his position.  More importantly, it kept the man here and accessible.

“Welcome to Kirkland Hall, Alfred,” he said as he toasted to their agreement.  “I suspect that life will be far from dull with you around.”

~o~

With their arrangement in place, Alfred quickly settled in one of the unused suites of the manor.  Much to Arthur’s dismay, his guest remained as secretive as ever over the next few weeks.  The Virginian took to disappearing out into the countryside on horseback for hours at a time after he breakfasted in the kitchens.  The only times that Arthur seemed to see him was when they sometimes took supper together, where he resisted all of the young gentleman’s probing questions.  The only new information he got out of the stranger were anecdotes from the servants about the man’s strange customs, such as practicing throwing rope in the garden or burning small rolls of parchment in his mouth.

His curiosity burned brighter than ever the longer his guest stayed and made himself more permanent a fixture.  He would dream vividly of his guest and his past, then dream not at all as he lay awake and stared up at his ceiling.  Just _wondering._

Out of desperation, his manners failed him and he instructed a chambermaid to “ _reporte if their gueste hath any odd accoutrements if she so happened to spy them_.”  Which they both knew was blanket permission to search Alfred’s belongings while he was on one of his excursions.

Unfortunately, she came back so spooked by all of the strangeness of his tools that she was convinced that their guest was some sort of malefactor or Devil in their midst.  Arthur had no choice but to have her caned out of her hysteria and sent her out of his sight.  With no recourse, the young gentleman needed to investigate himself lest more rumours of witchery circulate in the house.

Slowly, he tread lightly up to his guest’s quarters, though he knew his man would warn him if their guest approached the house.  Even so, knowing this was the height of ill manners kept him from being sure-footed in his own home.  Shutting the door behind him, he surveyed the Green Room and found it remarkably untouched.  Then again, Alfred did not seem the type to spread out and settle.  So he spied the two saddlebags and knelt down to study them.

As was the usual theme with their guest, the craftsmanship of his accessories was exceptional.  The leather bags were finely and evenly stitched, the leather worn but solid.  Arthur undid the buckles and carefully sifted through Alfred’s belongings.  The first thing he noticed, which utterly debunked his chambermaid’s hysterical raving, was a copy of the Holy Bible.  (Not a Book of Common Prayer, but he wouldn’t hold that against him.)  Yet, it was a version he had never seen, with neat but unornamented script.  Moreover, the paper was incredibly _white_.  So much so that Arthur was nearly afraid to dirty it with his fingers.

Uneasy of the implications of his strange guest having such an unnatural and holy thing, he set it aside for now and continued to search.  There were some standard items one would expect for a huntsman - horseshoes and rasp, extra reins, woolen socks and bedroll, flint and kindle, canteen and plate.  Alfred also had a beautiful compass, the like of which Arthur had never seen.  Finer and more delicate than anything he’d seen shewn at noble homes.  Similarly the razor and small mirror were of exquisite quality, polished to such a shine that he could clearly his own reflection.  As Arthur set these things aside, he began to believe that Alfred Jones might hail from a family exceedingly more affluent than his own.

However, all thoughts of that departed as he picked up two brown and green colored boxes with bold and neat foreign font.  After a moment’s study he realized that it was all in English.  Yet the words themselves had little to no meaning to him.

50 CARTRIDGES .44 CAL  
FOR  
**WINCHESTER RIFLE MODEL 1873**  
_CENTER                       SOLID_  
FIRE                             HEAD  
MANUFACTURED BY THE  
**WINCHESTER REPEATING ARMS CO.**  
NEW HAVEN, CONN., U.S.A.

On one side of the box was a depiction of Alfred’s unique musket.  On another a strange warning:

 _These Cartridges are made especially for our_ **_Model 1873 Rifle_ ** _, and guaranteed to be superior to all others for use in that gun.  We urge their use and decline to guarantee any gun except when used with our make of Cartridges._ **_Winchester Repeating Arms Co._ **

Frowning, Arthur gently shook the box and heard the sound of metal clinking inside.  it was likely the strangely shaped musket balls depicted on the box.  Created by gunsmiths he’d never heard of and, if New Haven was some sort of town, from a place unknown to him as well.  Though it made sense now why Alfred would find his ammunition so dear if he could not easily obtain more, dozens more questions now flooded him.  Yet Arthur knew one thing for sure.

Alfred simply could _not_ be from the colonies.  They were simply too rustic and backwater to produce anything the like of which his guest carried on his person.  Perhaps he did originate from there as he said, but his family made their fortune in tobacco and then traveled the world to pick up such fineries both strange and familiar.  It was the easiest explanation, the one that he could tell his servants to settle their qualms.  However, one fact did flicker and burn in the back of his mind, making this fabrication untenable.

Wherever Jones came from, every indication shewn that the common tongue was English.  Were the Cartridge boxes in French and the bible in German, he just might be able to accept this worldly fancy.  However, it seemed as though his guest simply dropped out of a different world entirely, yet one that belonged to the Commonwealth ( _née Kingdom_ ) of England.  One where brother fought against brother, where Alfred’s world had been torn asunder.  Arthur had no doubt that was the truest thing he knew of Alfred yet, when he spake that painful admission.  Their pain was much too similar that he would have seen through any falsehood or insincerity.

Dimly, Arthur recalled the stories months prior of the wicked storm that had blown through the county.  Of the green lightning and the unnatural fog that followed.  Something unworldly and supernatural had happened.  Then lo’ and behold, he finds Alfred Jones, who is so strange and familiar, civilized and savage, and who just so happened to save his life at the precise moment Arthur needed him most.  Cutting down ten men in one breath with just two firearms.

The thought sent a chill down his spine, his eyes flicking to the pristine white bible laying by his knee.  Perhaps he should be thinking of his guest as less of a who than a _what._

A knock at the door brought him out of his disturbing thoughts as his man warned him that Alfred was coming up over the hill.  Carefully and quickly, Arthur put all the small treasures back exactly as they were found, ducking out of his guest’s quarters long before he arrived back at the manor.

The young gentleman met him at the door, watching as the stranger entered his home with a frustrated sigh.  It took Alfred a moment to notice him lingering, but the man awarded him a weary smile.  Arthur offered a weak one back, looking over his guest anew.  He looked so solid, casting a long shadow along the wooden boards, yet he was just so _tall_ , so well-hewn and fair of face and just... _perfect._

Something compelled Arthur to verify his very existence.  He reached a hand out, taking Alfred’s forearm and feeling the soft leather of the coat and the strong muscle underneath.  The gunman cast him a quizzical glance, but did not seem alarmed by the sudden contact.  “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked, taking off his broad-brimmed hat as his blond hair lit up from the rays of the setting sun.

“I...” Arthur started, but he had not planned for anything but to touch Alfred to make sure he was real.  His mind floundered, before offering up some excuse at last, “I wanted to invite you to go to the village with me tomorrow.  To Churche?  It’s the Sabbath.”  If Jones were an otherworldly being, he should at least check that he was the _right_ kind of otherworldly.  “Honestly, I shoulde hath asked you previously, else you may be reported to the Magistrate.”

His guest merely blinked, but then gave him a warm half-smile.  “Well, sure.  Been longer than I can remember since I been able to go.  Might even I need to look to the Lord Hisself to provide me some answers.”  Then he gestured to his attire, which had not been so much as laundered once since he first arrived.  “Is it alright to show up like this though?  Ain’t my Sunday best.”

Arthur looked him over and realized he had become so accustomed to the man’s clothes they no longer seemed so strange.  However, the villagers would not have been afforded the same opportunity and his guest would stick out in unsavoury fashion.

“I will hath something made for you,” Arthur decided, though that may delay his taking his guest out to Church.  “Something a bit less... conspicuous.  I will send for the seamstresse on Monday.”

Alfred’s nose suddenly scrunched, casting a sidelong look at Arthur’s attire that the gentleman could only interpret as distaste.  Arthur could not help but be both amused and affronted at once.  “Oh, what is that look?” he demanded with a bark of laughter, folding his arms over his chest.  “Tis not I that wouldst be ogled if I so much as walked through the village square.”

“Really?” Alfred quipped lightly, peering at him over his green spectacles, “Woulda thought you turned all the ladies’ heads.”

For reasons unknown, the innocent remark sent a rush of blood up to Arthur’s cheeks in an unseemly blush.  His jaw wagged, trying futilely to come up with some witty rapport.  However, when none was forthcoming, Alfred smirked at him and he knew he had lost.  Giving it up, he said instead, “You will turn _all_ heads and will undoubtedly be subject to more of those pesky questions you so loathe to answer.  At least let me help you alleviate some of it by making sure you do not look so out of place.”

His guest thought about it, before releasing a long resigned sigh.  “Alright, fine.  I know yer right.  ‘Spose I should be grateful yer helpin’ me out like this.”  He gave Arthur a pained look.  “But do I really need to wear such... poofy pants?”

Arthur _assumed_ he was not referring to drawers, though his cheeks darkened nonetheless.  “I will endeavoure to make sure you are comfortable,” he replied stiffly, “and mimic your own attire as best we can in our current fashions.  In any case, I see nothing wrong with your leathers.  Your coat is strange, but of such fine make twoulde be a shame not to use it.  Everything else is... problematic.  Particularly your waistcoat.”

Alfred looked down and tugged at the grey material.  “What?  My vest?  What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s womanly,” Arthur informed him quite frankly.  “Most hath not seen any depictions of Persians or the Orient in general, so their only experience are the waistcoats that ladies wear over their smocks.”

“...Oh,” Alfred said, a frown deepening.

“ _Oh_ , indeed,” the gentleman said with an impish smile.  He beckoned Alfred follow, since supper now awaited them.  “Now come, let us dine.  You look like you hath suffered another long day of riding.”

~o~

In the end, Churchgoing with Alfred did need to be put off and Arthur sent for the seamstress at first light on Monday.  He lent a shirt and breeches to Alfred for the occasion, though it was obvious that nothing was of the right length.  He did not dare try a doublet.  Alfred really was irritatingly tall and... broad.  However, he did take some small pleasure in seeing his guest so awkward and discomfited, as he kept trying to adjust and readjust his clothes.

“It jus’ don’ feel right,” he complained for the tenth time that day after the seamstress took measurements and instruction.  Then found out to his dismay that Arthur had sent his clothes off for laundering, preventing him from changing back.

“Well you do not want to catch ill,” his host explained to him most reasonably.  “Your clothes were absolutely filthy.  Tis a wonder you hath not been sick already.”

“That’s not how you-” Alfred started, before he seemed to think better of it and let out a frustrated growl.  “Don’ know why ‘n tarnation I ever agreed to this,” he scowled, stomping up to his room as Arthur cackled with gaiety after him.  His mood only improved when his clothes were returned to him a couple days later, though he gave Arthur one last dirty look before he immediately went up to his room to change back.

With Alfred’s new clothes still in the making, Arthur knew that his guest would set to riding the next day and subsequently cleared his schedule.  Thus he was waiting at the door in his hunting gear, armed with sabre and musket, ready to follow.  Attired in his (un)usual riding clothes, Alfred gave a start at the Hall’s doors when he realized that he was to have an unexpected riding companion.  “What’re you doin’ up?” he asked warily.

“I thought I might join you today,” the gentleman replied cheerfully.  His hounds circled excitedly about his heels, easing some of the wariness in Alfred’s eyes.  “Perhaps even go hunting.  Demetrius and Lysander do enjoy the sporte.”

“Weren’t plannin’ on hunting...” Alfred replied cautiously.

“That’s quite alright.  Perfectly happy just to accompany you,” Arthur said, undaunted.  He waved a hand towards the stables.  “Shall we?”

His guest studied him for a long minute, as if trying to find some malevolent interest in his affairs.  However, after a time, he released a sigh and started towards the horses, “Spose there ain’t any harm in it.  Long as you let me handle any bandits we come by.”

Arthur’s eye twitched in irritation.  “Mr. Jones, I am not some storybooke damsel in distress.  I am perfectly capable of handling myself,” he snapped, following at the other man’s heels.

“Uh-huh,” the gunman replied with amused skepticism.

“I am!” Arthur insisted, even as Alfred just chuckled and spurred his horse down the road.

Thusly, the first hours of their ride was spent in silence as the young noble nursed his pride from Alfred’s insulting jest.  However, his curiosity was slowly getting the better of him as he watched his companion stop every so often to either get his bearings or to survey the surroundings in seemingly random spots.  It was early afternoon and the thirtieth stop, when finally Arthur could no longer contain himself.  “Alfred, _what_ are you doing?” he demanded as the other man dismounted his horse to study a rock.

Alfred rose to his feet and kicked the boulder in obvious frustration.  “Tryin’ to find a pattern,” he muttered, “somethin’ like that, I dunno.  I dunno what I’m even lookin’ for most days.”  Arthur frowned in confusion, but waited to see if some sort of explanation was forthcoming.  It was not often that his guest indulged in sharing his thoughts.  The day had been long and both of them were tired, less guarded.  Alfred paced out his vexation, his leather coat whipping at his legs with each sharp turn.

Arthur was finally rewarded, when Alfred continued to speak his frustration aloud to no one in particular, “I don’t know if this is an act of God or some mystic revenge plot by a Comanche ghost.  Might even be I’m dead and I jus’ don’t know it.  All I know is I was one place, ‘n then ‘fore I know it I’m stuck _here_.”

This news was more than a little alarming as Arthur slowly let the other man’s words sink in.  “Alfred,” he said softly, his eyes wide, “do you mean to say that you really did drop out of the sky?”

Alfred’s steely blue eyes flicked up towards him, uncertain how to respond as his host waited with bated breath.  “Spose I am,” he conceded somberly, before his gaze hardened.  “Gonna burn me at the stake?  That’s what you people do, right?”

Arthur opened his mouth, but could not find any satisfactory way to respond.  Alfred was living proof of the supernatural at work, a thought that made his blood run cold with fear.  Yet... he simply did not know if this was the work of the Devil or of the Divine.  In his heart, he knew which he prefered.  That his savior was an agent of Heaven.  “I...” he spake softly, unsure of how to address his guest now, “no.  I won’t, sirrah.  Your secret is safe with me.  No matter what you are, you’ll always be the... the one who saved my life.”

The gunman relaxed marginally, his gaze shifting from challenging to tired.  His hand shifted away from the butt of his pistol, a motion Arthur hadn’t even noticed before.  He’d been ready to shoot if his host had given the wrong answer.  Alfred stepped closer to his horse and despite himself, Arthur trembled at his proximity, unsure of what the being was planning on doing.  Carefully, Alfred took his hand, unfisting it from its trembling hold on his reins.  Then he pressed Arthur’s naked palm against his cheek, where the skin was warm and weathered and so very real.

“I ain’t a what,” Alfred told him, “or a ‘Sirrah’.  I’m jus’ me.  Jus’ Al.  Alright?”

Heat seemed to spread from that simple touch, tracing along his veins until it warmed the back of Arthur’s neck.  It was suddenly difficult to meet the gunman’s intense gaze and his own green eyes darted away in awkward embarrassment.  “A-aye, alright,” he breathed, his voice but a weak rasp.  Coughing lightly, he stole his hand back from Alfred’s cheek, though his fingertips still seemed to be entirely too warm.  “Shew me?” he asked, glancing down at the gunman from the corner of his eye.  “Whence you first came.  I shoulde like to see it.”

“Sure thing, partner,” Alfred agreed, swinging himself back up into the saddle.  He turned their horses to the west, towards that fateful wood, and led them over the hills.  Now that he knew their direction, Arthur could see that there had been some method to Alfred’s survey.  They had spent most of the day in an arc around this single point.  Alfred simply must have started in the center and worked his way outwards in an expanding circle.  It was incredibly telling of Alfred’s capacity for reason and mathematics, whether he knew it or not.

Once they were inside the wood, Alfred led them carefully off the main path and down a gentle slope.  “Came to near the crick down here,” the gunman explained, hopping down from his horse as the path grew too uneven.  Arthur followed suit, growing more uneasy as the wood grew darker and wilder.  Even more so, when Demetrius and Lysander refused to go further, baying and whining as their master headed down the slope.

Then he became aware of the smell of rotten flesh and he immediately pulled a kerchief over his nose out of aversion to the polluted air.

“Jus’ my old horse,” Alfred said, though he took similar action in covering his face.  They found the poor beast near the bottom of the hill, now a heaping feast for maggots.  “Broke both legs.  Had to put ‘im down,” the gunman explained grimly.  “Near took me out too when we came through.”

Arthur nodded and past the carcass to the surrounding area.  Then he stopped short as his eyes found a ring of dark green grass amidst the floral bed.  His guest noticed the sudden stiffness and asked, “You see somethin’?”

The gentleman did not reply immediately.  Instead he searched his person, pulled out an iron hoof pick.  Then he grabbed Alfred’s hand without warning, pulled off his leather glove and placed the iron against his naked palm.

The end result simply had the gunman staring at him in confusion.  “...Am I ‘spose to do somethin’ with this?” he asked, holding up the pick.

A well of relief and concern filled the young gentleman as he took the hoof pick back.  “I was merely testing you,” he replied, before he pointed towards the ring.  “Didst you come from hence?”

Alfred frowned.  “Don’ rightly remember,” he replied, looking upon the ring with a healthy dose of skepticism.  “Why?  Is it special?”

“Hath you never hearde of a fairy ring?” Arthur asked.  When the gunman shook his head, he wondered once again _where_ the man had come from.  The colonists were not so long gone to the New World that they would forget about such things.  “Tis a thing of evil, made from the dance of witches or elves in the moonlight.  Horrible ills befall those who are ensnared by fairies.  They can go mad or turn to ash upon eating human food.  More often than naught, they are stolen away to the fairy realm, perhaps for many, many years, without any recollection that they had been spirited away once they hath returned.”

“What? Like Rip Van Winkle?” Alfred asked, though the incredulity on his face did not abate in the least.

Arthur blinked.  “Who?”

“Man who slept through the-” the gunman started, then once again changed his mind mid-sentence, “Ne’ermind.  So yer sayin’ I was taken here by witches, or elves... or fairies.”  He gave Arthur a queer glance that immediately made the man’s hackles rise.  “You actually believe in that bull?”

“Hath you a better explanation for how you came to be here?” Arthur challenged back, his eyes narrowing.

Alfred looked as though he were about to argue for a moment, before he clicked his jaw shut and looked back at the fiendish circle.  “Spose I ain’t got room to talk,” he said in that strange jargon, though from his tone the Englishman assumed he was conceding.  “Ain’t got the first idea how I got here, so witches ‘n elves is as good as any.  Ain’t no mattera me sleepin’ through a few centuries though.”

“I assumed as much,” Arthur replied curtly.  Though his mood eased with the gunman’s concession.  Moreover having some definitive answers was doing wonders for his mind.  “However, I am naught an expert on fairies.  I hath but rudimental knowledge from folklore.”

“So... I’m guessin’ you don’ know how to send me back then,” Alfred said, his cheer dimming even as Arthur’s brightened.  It knocked the gentleman off his stride as he remembered that the man was mere victim to cruel magic.

“I... From all accounts, the damage done by fairies is everlasting and that you should feel blessed you are even still alive,” Arthur replied, his voice soft and apologetic.  “I woulde not presume to say anything save for the fact that you hath been victime to dark work.  However, I fear taking this to the Vic- the Minister-”

“The Preacher?” Alfred offered, eyebrow raised.

“Yes, that,” Arthur muttered, glad his guest cared naught for his fumble, “for fear that you might be branded a heretic at least because of your strangeness.”

“Gee thanks,” Alfred said sarcastically, but Arthur coughed politely and ignored it.

“We coulde... try to find someone from Scotland to ask,” he said, his eyes stuck to the fairy ring like a fly to honey.  “They hath far more expertise in these matters and woulde not report you to the Deanery.  We are not so far from the border, though the ride may be perilous due to recent conflicts.”

“We?” Alfred said, both eyebrows rising.  Arthur had never seen his blue eyes so wide.  “No, I can’t ask you to do more fer me.  Y’already done more ‘n enough.  I handled my share of raiders ‘n bandits, ‘n I can’t put you in any danger on my account.”

“Alfred, do not be absurde,” Arthur argued back.  “You hath no idea with whom to speak.  Moreover, the Scots are a rude and superstitious lot, who despise outsiders.  You are likely to get yourself killed or worse.”  And they were Presbyterians, the lot of them.  Although he could not very well say _that_ aloud, could he.

“I can’t imagine why, with y’all as neighbors,” Alfred said in a tone suspiciously flat, making it hard for Arthur to tell if he was serious.

“Well,” Arthur said, his voice clipped, “I will admit our past dealings hath been adversarial at best.  Now that we hath some tenuous union with them, they should try to be more civil.”  However, noting the still troubled look on his guest’s face he said.  “Very well, if you fret so over my security, I will write first to my contact in Edinburgh.  I will simply tell him I am interested in putting together a compendiume of fairy lore and see if he knows of one whom I should consult.”

“‘N you’ll let me head there on my own once you find out?” Alfred asked warily.

“...I will think on it,” the gentleman replied, which was as good as answer as the gunman was going to get at the moment.  “In the meantime, let us leave this evil wood.  I woulde rather us not be both be caught by an elven spell.”

The pair of them headed back up the slope, much to the hounds’ relief, and onto the main path as the wood began to darken even more with the evening sun.  With the promise of a hot meal and a safe bed, they were both eager to head back to the manor.  “Art, I have a dumb question,” Alfred said, along the ride.

“After your experience, I woulde not deign to call it such,” Arthur replied as the lanterns in front of the manor came into view.  “Pray tell, what is it?”

The gunman looked down at his hands upon the reins, the broad brim of his hat shielding his expression from Arthur’s probing gaze.  “...What year is it?”

The noble sucked in a small breath.  So.  He was right.  This man did not belong to this world.  At least not the world as he knew it.  “The Year of the Lord 1654,” he replied quietly, wishing that he could see Alfred’s face as he spake.

Yet he knew in the way Alfred’s shoulders hunched and faintly shuddered that it was not the answer the gunman wished to hear.  He took a long breath, before he straightened up and looked on ahead, his face as grim as tombstone.  “Alright,” he said, “Alright then.”  Then he lapsed into silence, as though he would not, or _could_ not, say more.

It took a moment before Arthur found the courage to speak.  “Alfred...?   _When_ are you from?” he asked softly, as the numbers **_1873_ ** burned in the back of his mind like a cold brand.

An interminable silence followed, as the other man wrestled with the decision whether or not to reply.  “...Reckon it’s best that I don’t say,” the gunman murmured finally.  “Best that nobody knows what I know ‘fore their time.  I’d kill myself ‘fore I put the future in harm’s way.”  More darkly, he added, “May be that I should, if I ain’t got a prayer in goin’ home.”

An icy chill went down Arthur’s spine at this proclamation.  Before he realized it, he snatched the gunman’s forearm, squeezing it tight enough to bruise.  “Do not _dare_ ,” he breathed, his green eyes bright with fervor.  “I will not hear of it.  I swear on my honour I will never put you into a position where you deem that necessary, even if we cannot find the answers you seek,” he said even as part of him burned with curiosity.  Yet it was a part that he could suppress for his saviour’s benefit.  “Promise you willst not speake of it.”

Surprise marring his grim expression, Alfred looked down to the hand on his arm before they met with Arthur’s intense gaze.  His eyes softened and his lips turned into a crooked half-smile.  “Sure, Art.  I swear on my Ma’s grave,” he said, making a cross over his heart.

“Good,” Arthur declared, though embarrassment crept into him from the sheer intensity of his own actions.  He coughed lightly, not quite able to meet those amused blue eyes as he pried himself off of his guest’s arm.  “Let us return.  I expect that supper is waiting,” he said, spurring his horse into a cantor so that he did not have to meet the gunman’s eyes.

~o~

Now fitted with a plan in place that did not involve roving over the Lacanshire countryside, Arthur received the unexpected boon of finding Alfred around the manor more often.  Life was significantly easier with the Virginian, (Alfred insisted he spake not a lie since he arrived, including his origins,) now that the truth had been aired.  Though the gunman’s circumstances in coming were no less incredible than his imagination portended, the young gentleman could no longer find anything sinister in Alfred’s strange custom.  Moreover, Alfred became far less guarded around him, easy with his smiles and his speech, though he kept tight-lipped on anything related to his own world.  Arthur was content instead to study the gunman’s mannerisms to search for clues in what the future held, when no explanations from Alfred himself would be forthcoming.

In the time that preceded news from Edinburgh, Arthur learned that Alfred was either quite wealthy in his time or that the richly commodities that he held so dear were now far more common.  The gunman had the audacity to ask for his _tobacco_ and _sugar_ as he had run out of his own.  In the same hour, he gifted a richly deep blue kerchief to Arthur after he admired his red, which he so happened to have as a spare.

More problematic was Alfred’s distressing desire to _bathe his entire body._  In _hot water._

“You really don’ own a bathtub?” the gunman asked in complete bafflement, staring at his host as if it were _Arthur_ that was the ludicrous one.  “I woulda thought you had _ten._  I mean, I gone months without bathing ‘fore, but yer entire life?”

“Why on earth woulde I hath a body basin?” the gentleman demanded shortly, not at all enjoying the way the gunman insinuated that their collective lifestyle was so uncivilized.  Not to mention, the thought of Alfred stewing naked in a glorified soup pot was cause enough for flusterment.  “Tis completely unhygienic.”

“Unhy-” Alfred started incredulously, before he threw up his hands in exasperation.  “Ne’ermind, I’ll jus’ go wash in the river.  Done it afore.”

“That is even worse!” Arthur cried in horror.  “You willst let all the bad air into your pores!”

Needless to say, they did not come to any sort of agreement on the matter.  Alfred went off to the Wyre to do who-knew-what to himself, whilst Arthur tried (unsuccessfully) not to think about it in any form or fashion.  Honestly, it was a miracle they were not all dead in the future.  Although the fact that Alfred seemed to thrive gave some hope they wouldn’t all die of the Black Death one day.

And while Alfred would not show him his marksmanship, he did put Arthur to the test with his riding and roping skills.  He acquired some poor calf and set him out into the garden, where he managed to impressively show off how to ‘round up’ cattle and ruin his lawn at the same time.  Yet it was somehow worth his ruined garden to hear Alfred’s bright laughter at Arthur’s meagre attempts to duplicate his efforts.

In any case, somehow in his study, Alfred Jones had wormed his way in Arthur’s mind as a solid fixture in daily life and a dear companion.  He became used to his presence and his odd mannerisms, seeing past them to the good soul that the Virginian guarded underneath his rough exterior.  Silently pious and patient, he paid Arthur’s hospitality back with humble gratitude and demonstrations of even temperament to any given situation.  Unsophisticated as he was, he nonetheless had a wisdom borne of dire circumstance and hard living.  It put Arthur’s own hot temper to shame.

However, even the young gentleman did not realize to what extent Alfred became so dear to him, until the day Alfred’s new clothes and the letter from Edinburgh arrived both at once.

There was nothing to account for the sick, gut wrenching feeling in his stomach when he held in his hands an invitation to meet the wise woman in some unpronounceable village in the Scottish highlands (advising that he speak as little as possible whilst there).  Nothing save that his close kinship with the Virginian would soon be at an end.

“How’s this look?” a voice queried, drawing Arthur’s gaze up from the letter and to the Virginian.  He stood at the doorway, looking quite uncomfortable in his new attire.  Taking pity on him, Arthur tried to make use of his existing clothes as much as he could.  Nonetheless, Alfred wore a ruffled white shirt with a lightly laced falling band, a fashionable modestly-dyed blue doublet adorned with many buttons, as well as matching breeches fastened at the knee and the waist with yellow ribbon.  All his leathers remained, even the coat, though it was now partly hidden away by a burgundy collared cloak trimmed with braid, worn casually over one shoulder.  He even had a new satin ribbon and feather for his hat.  (His short hair was rather unfortunate, but one could not remedy that without a plague-ridden periwig.)

Aye, it was all very fashionable and current.  Yet Arthur stared at the Virginian anew as though he turned a Moor.  “Strange,” the gentleman answered in all honesty, “I believe I favour you better in your own attire.  How fare you?”

Alfred grimaced.  “Stuffy.  The feather’s plain stuck up.  Spose the pants (‘ _Breeches,’ Arthur hissed_ ) ain’t as bad as I thought, but I look like a Pilgrim,” he said, as he tugged at his falling band.  “Cept fer I ain’t wearing all black.”

The gentleman assumed that he was not talking about one of those pious pillocks who traveled to the Holy Land.  “Who?”

“A _Pilgrim_ ,” Alfred said with a sigh.  “I know you have those already.  Came to Massachusetts on the Mayflower in 1620.  Those folks.”

“Oh _those_ people,” Arthur replied with the same heavy derision he applied to all Calvinists.  He felt perfectly comfortable airing his innermost thoughts and feelings to the Virginian by now.  It was not likely that his guest would run off and report him.  “What mean you, all black?  They do not wear black.”

“...They don’?” Alfred asked, suddenly baffled.

“No, of course not.  Black is a terribly expensive dye,” the Englishman replied with a smile, always enjoying the rare moments when he confuddled Alfred.  “Tis a sin to show off such vanity and flagrant displays of wealthe,” he added with a roll of his eyes.

Never had Alfred looked as though his entire worldview had been shattered, staring slackjawed long enough that Arthur coughed politely to draw him out of it.  “I woulde not worry, Alfred,” he said, “You hath entirely too many buttons and lace to be palatable for their tastes.  In any case, the more important thing is that you appear not so strange to the local populace.  Or to the Scots,” he added darkly.

That drew his guest out of his stupor quickly enough as he noticed for the first time the letter in Arthur’s fingers.  “That from yer Scottish friend?”

“Acquaintance,” the gentleman replied stiffly, “Aye, tis.”  Alfred made to snatch it from his hands, but Arthur was entirely too quick for him as he wrenched it out of sight.  “I am going with you,” he spake with as much authority as he could.  As much as one _could_ muster whilst one played keepaway with the precious letter as children would a favorite toy.

“You said you weren’t gonna,” Alfred declared, a streak of impatience finally shewn through as he was continually denied.

“I never said that.  I said I woulde think on it,” the Englishman replied, “and think I hath.  I am accompanying you.”

“I ain’t gonna be responsible fer anythin’ happening t’ya!” Alfred snapped.  He took Arthur by the shoulders with hands as unforgiving as stone and pushed him against the mantle of the fireplace.  “Now give me the letter!”

With his back to the fire, so to speak, there really was only one thing that Arthur could do.  He dropped the letter behind him, to be consumed by the flame.  Alfred let out a cry of outrage, yet it was too late.  The message was lost to him.  He turned back to Arthur then, his blue eyes blazing with an emotion that the gentleman did not expect.  Hurt.

It caused Arthur's heart much disquiet.  However, he squared his shoulders and spake, “Now you hath no choice but to take me.  You do me too little credit.  Or do you think me so soft that I must be handled as delicately as a flower?”

“Yer the most _mule-headed_ -” the Virginian growled in sheer frustration, his hands fisting at his sides.  “Wouldja even thinka goin’ to Scotland if it weren’t fer me?  If somethin’ was to happen to you while we were on the road and if yer kin were spose to fight in some great battle in a hundred years, it could change _everythin’_.”

The gentleman’s jaw set, gritting sharply as his temper flared.  Was _that_ all he was to the other man?  Some seed out of a family tree?  A clockwork complication?  “If thou wast truly concerned with such things,” he spat, “then thou shouldst not hath saved my life when we first met!”  He turned away from Alfred’s stunned expression, unable to stand being in his presence anymore.  Storming outside, he ordered his horse ready and rode away from the manor.

When Arthur exhausted both mare and temper, he stopped at a lightly wooded creek.  As his anger diminished, he felt foolish for running off as though he were a child with a tantrum.  It was no wonder that Alfred thought him so ill-equipped for the sojourn, despite the fact that he had actually _been_ to Edinburgh before.  Of course, the Highlands were a different story entirely.  Sighing, he sat upon the bank and solemnly contemplated the softly trickling brook.

After a time, the sound of running water was interspersed with the clip of hoof.  The gentleman did not look up, though he knew exactly who it was.  “Come to collect me for supper?” he asked bitterly, his eyes trained on a small rock in the creek.

An uncomfortable beat followed, before the Virginian softly spake, “Sorry.”

The apology took Arthur completely by surprise.  He turned around, finding Alfred staring off at the creek as well.  As though unable to meet Arthur’s eyes.  “Didn’ mean anythin’ like what I said,” he elaborated under the gentleman’s expectant gaze, “Course I wouldn’ let you die.  ‘N yer right, may be that I did already muck up the future, but I woulda done it again.  I jus’...”  The Virginian faltered for words and heaved a heavy sigh.  He took off his hat, running his hand through his hair in a frustrated gesture.  “I lost too many brothers already, Art.  I don’ aim to lose any more.”

Taking in the soft admission, Arthur’s temper cooled completely as his heart warmed instead.  His lips pulled into a faint smile.  “I am a brother to you, am I?” he asked lightly.

Those blue eyes drew to his, peering over the green tinted spectacles.  “Nearly,” he replied, answering Arthur’s smile with a crooked one of his own, “Not quite.”  Deeming it safe to approach, he dismounted and stood by Arthur’s side.  “Since yer more stubborn than a skunk bear, I don’ trust that you’ll let me alone even if I ride off to Scotland without you.  Spose the only thing for it is I teach you how to shoot my gun.”

At this, Arthur’s eyes snapped wide and he quickly bounded up to his feet.  “Your musket?  Truly?  I thought you needed to save your ammunition.”

“No, not my _rifle_ ,” Alfred scoffed, though the gentleman had no idea why the thought was so absurd, “my Colt.  Fer emergencies only, iffen someone gets too close.  Also so’s you don’ go wastin’ any bullets.  Got yer own gun, don’ you?  You’d best show me what I’m gonna be workin’ with ‘fore we hit the trail.  You jus’ need to swear on yer life that you don’ share any future secrets with anyone else.”

“I swear it,” Arthur replied quickly, eager to see either firearm in action.  Besides, who was he to tell?  Certainly not the ones in power now.  “Come, let us head back.  I will finde my father’s musket and show you.”

~o~

Alfred looked so horrified at the sight of Arthur’s musket that it was almost comical.

“It ain’t even a flintlock!” he said aghast, as Arthur set up a range in one of the fields to demonstrate his marksmanship.  They had but a day to practice with the weapons before their journey north, as letters needed to be sent and preparations for traveling made.  However, from all of the protestations of the Virginian, Arthur was beginning to regret this entire affair.  Even wonder if a day was long enough to familiarize himself with Alfred’s pistol if his own firearm was deemed so primitive.

Alfred stood unnecessarily far off to the side, back in his own apparel with both musket and pistol.  The gentleman ground his teeth in irritation as he went through the motions of filling the musket with powder and ball, whilst Alfred utterly distracted him.  “Yer liable to blow yer face off,” Alfred called at him.

“Fie, I will not!” Arthur objected crossly, though there was no real conviction behind it.  After all, they buried more fingers and toes than bodies during the war.  He stood 25 paces from the target, very carefully lighting the match attached to the serpentine and not set alight the powder in the musket prematurely.  He held the gun up and aimed at the straw dummy and fired.  The shot went wide.  Of course.  Growling, Arthur reloaded the musket again, which seemed a daunting task with Alfred blatantly judging.  His next shot went through the dummy’s shoulder, much to his satisfaction.  He turned to give Alfred a smug grin, though it grew more hesitant at the Virginian’s appalled features.  “ _Now_ what ails you?” he demanded.

Alfred shook his head faintly.  “Bad memories,” he replied, before he seemed to shake away his dark thoughts.  Striding up to Arthur, he said, “Least you can shoot from 50 yards.  That’s about as far as you can go with the Colt.  Still wouldn’ try further than 20 if I was you.”

Arthur was stunned.  25 paces with the _pistol?_  How far could Alfred’s _musket_ go?  “Willst you show me?” he asked eagerly, his irritation forgotten.  “Please?” he added, when the gunman grimaced.  “I pray, just once?”

“...Alright, _fine_ ,” Alfred gave in without any sort of relish.  Then much to Arthur’s glee he pulled out his musket and proceeded to head further away, _twice_ as far as the gentleman had with his own firearm.  He took a handful of his strangely shaped musket balls and loaded _all_ of them.  Through the _side_ of the musket.  Apparently, without any need whatsoever for gunpowder.

That alone was shocking enough.  Until Alfred took aim at the dummy and pulled back an extra hook at the top of the musket.  Then he fired once, whipped a lever underneath the gun, fired again.  Lever.  Fire.  Lever.  Fire.  Six shots, all the ones loaded, spent in less than a breath.

And so, Arthur finally saw firsthand just how the Virginian had saved him.  He scarcely even noticed Alfred nod towards the target, so fixated was he on the deadly elegance of the weapon.  He looked on and saw that the straw head of the dummy was simply no more, a smouldering ruin when there should have been one.

“How- that- you-” Arthur stammered, still shocked to his core.  “You did not use the pistol when you saved me, did you...” he said, his eyes widening in realization.

“Nope,” Alfred answered simply, slinging his musket (rifle) over his shoulder and picking up the bright metals that were flung from the firearm into the grass.

Arthur was stunned into silence.  The reality that Alfred really _was_ from another time never seemed more solid than it did in that very moment.  As did the knowledge that there was no one in the world more lethal than his honoured guest.

However, Alfred was certainly not done showing him feats of wonder, when he turned back to Arthur with his pistol in hand.  “Alright, lemme show ya how to load the Colt,” he said as he _snapped_ his pistol open in two.

It took an hour for Arthur’s fingers simply to stop shaking as he trained in the weapon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thee and thou are interesting, because it used to be a way to talk down to people inferior to you, such as servants or children. By the time it came to the English Civil War, it was only used as an insult.
> 
> Virginia is also where a huge number of Royalists went during the Civil War, including the Cavaliers (which is why University of Virginia's mascot are the Cavaliers). It asked Charles II to come and become its King, but Cromwell put a stop to that (and almost all trading with it). When the monarchy was restored, Charles II gave it the honorific of the Old Dominion.
> 
> Do NOT use the word 'coon' for a black person. It is extremely derogatory. The only reason why it's used here is because Alfred is racist and it's outdated, unlike the N-word.


	2. Scotland

“You look like yer constipated,” Alfred jested from alongside him.

The gentleman merely grimaced and took his hand away from his side, trying to focus instead on the road ahead.  The carefully hidden revolving pistol in his coat seemed to weigh a tonne.  Arthur liked not the responsibility of it, nor the fact that the deadly weapon flush against him was already _loaded_.  He touched a hand to it entirely too frequently throughout their long journey north to Scotland, hence the gunman’s japes.  Thus far, their journey had been uneventful, aside from passing a couple of stagecoaches on the road, (which oddly delighted Alfred at the sight of them).  It left Arthur to hope he could pass the firearm back without complaint.

“It is going to go off,” Arthur insisted.

“It ain’t,” the Virginian replied without a trace of concern.

“It will.  It will leave a crater in mine body so large that it will look like the Devil took a bite from of me.  No one will give me a Christian burial.  My body will be hung and beheaded, thrown to the dogs.  Must it be loaded?”

“Ain’t no point in givin’ you an unloaded gun for yer self-defense,” Alfred reasoned, not at all sympathetic to his host’s distress.  “Sides, poking at it ain’t gonna make it less likely to blow.”  That thought struck Arthur like a switch and both hands gripped his reins with a shaking grip.  “C’mon now, Art, I was jus’ pokin’ fun,” Alfred said with a grin.  “I’ve had that gun loaded ‘n strapped to my hip for years ‘n nuthin’ happened.  It’ll be _fine_.”

Perhaps if Alfred’s smile were not so wicked, Arthur would feel more at ease.  Perhaps this was revenge for the gentleman’s own insistence that Alfred wear his new clothes for the sojourn instead of the riding attire that most suited him.  If Alfred had to be made uncomfortable, it was only fair that the gentleman did as well.  Save for the small matter that if Alfred was wrong, then Arthur would surely die.

However, their destination now loomed ahead, which stilled both their tongues for different reasons.  As they passed under the shadow of Edinburgh castle, they headed through the stone walls to see the city sprawl in front of them with two-story homes of timber and three-four story stone structures.  The streets filled with common folk littered with carts, horses, oxen and English infantry. They were not so out of place as Arthur feared, though Alfred’s leather coat did get the odd look or two.  The stench was quite appalling, though that was the case with any large city where too many human souls amassed, made worse by the growing heat.  It made Arthur miss his country manor almost immediately.  Much to his satisfaction, it seemed Alfred was similarly affected as he turned a mild green.

However, there was another cloying fog just as palpable as the stench.  Though they were at peace of a sort, the tension in the air was as thick and uneasy as an armed encampment.  After all, it had not been too long at all since Dunbar and some of the looks that the citizenry gave the occupying forces held such savagery in them.

Unfortunately, it had been years since Arthur had been to the Scottish capital and he was obliged to ask for directions.  Upon hearing his accent, he simply received scowls and spats for his troubles.  “Lemme give it a go,” the Virginian said after the third failed attempt.  Though it much irritated him, Arthur nodded his assent.

With that, Alfred left his side and sidled his horse up to a couple of young women walking along the street.  He tipped the brim of his cap to the pair of them and spake in that unique drawl of his, “Good mornin’, ladies.”  Whether it was his foreign accent or his handsome visage, he got their attention immediately along with a couple titters and curtsies.  Arthur’s vexation only intensified.  “Would you happen to know where Gilpatric House is?  Much obliged.  Have a fine day,” he said, tipping his hat as they passed him directions.  He returned back to the Englishman’s side, his face perfectly neutral.  “Down Holyrood and left on St. John’s.  Should find it ‘fore we hit the Abbey.”

“Oh, _thank you_.  Whither woulde I do without you?” Arthur replied, his sarcasm as sharp as a whip.  Alfred did not reply, save for raising an eyebrow, which only made the gentleman feel all the more foolish.  “Right, it is familiar to me.  Come,” he said, spurring his mare forward through the crowds and down the muck-stone streets.  Soon enough, the familiar six-story face of the stone and timber townhouse came into view.  Arthur dismounted from his horse to rap at the door.

The door opened and the large silhouette of his very, _very_ distant cousin filled the frame.  He was a big barrel chested man, with dark hair and ruddy, cheerful cheeks.  Though his hair had more silver than last Arthur saw him.  “Ah, Arthur, welcome welcome!” Alisdair Gilpatric’s voice boomed over the din of the street.  He pulled Arthur into a quick embrace that made the Englishman freeze up at the sudden jostling of the pistol still hidden in his doublet.  Somehow, it miraculously did not go off and Alisdair let him go, none the wiser.  “How long has it been, lad?  Twelve, thirteen years?  Ye’ve nae grown an inch.”

“Good morning, Cousin Alisdair,” Arthur said wearily.  He gestured back to Alfred, who looked on the reunion in curiosity.  “This is my traveling companion, Alfred Jones.”  The Virginian nodded, giving the standard tip of his hat.

“Jones, eh?” his Scottish cousin said, tugging at his pointed beard.  “Any relation tae Inigo Jones?”

“No,” Arthur said shortly, before Alfred could voice any affirmation or confusion.  “He is from Virginia.  I hath tolde you so in my letter, Cousin.  May we come in?”

“Aye, course, o’ course,” Alisdair replied jovially, waving a man over to take their horses into his stable.  With a hand to Arthur’s back, he led the pair of them into his townhome.  It hadn’t changed at all since Arthur had last been there, from its slender windows in stonework and the painted wooden ceilings.  “Ye’ve had a long journey, I expect.  Nae trouble on the road?  Nae mosstroopers?”

“Nothing exciting, I assure you,” Arthur replied as they were shewn to the tight little sitting room, where they were briefly introduced to the small brood of six children and an uncomfortable greeting to his fourteen year old daughter whom Alisdair was obviously trying to hawke upon him.  When that met with little success, they were allowed seats and mugs of strong homebrewed ale where Alisdair promptly began to talk their ears off about life under those numpty roundheads (the worst of them being the scunner Old Ironsides, naturally).

Honestly, it was as if Arthur had never left.

The first time Arthur was able to get a word in edgewise, was during their supper of oysters and spiced pheasant.  By then, they had all switched to the much stronger Scotch whiskey.  It was rough, but pleasant after the first couple cups.  And no doubt illegal.  “Cousin, you never tolde me how it is you know of this wise woman in the Highlands.  I hath thought you wanted nothing to do with men of their ilk.”

“Aye, twas true ten years past,” Alisdair agreed as he tossed his bones to the floor and sucked the grease from his fingers.  “But tha’ was before Dunbar an’ before they made mockery of Clan Douglas by makin’ the Arl of Angus pay dearly tae _His Highness_ Mister Cromwell,” he added, his green eyes like poison, “an’ before Argyl sided with those twally-washin’ English bawbags.  No offense tae present company.”

Arthur shrugged, preferring whiskey to arguments.  His cousin did not notice as he spake on.

“I heared Glencairn’s got those Highlanders all gathered up under the banner o’ King Charles, an’ even Argyle’s own eldest sonne, wouldja believe it.  With any luck, they’ll throw those English bawbags intae the sea, just like the Roman bleeders before them.”

“What?  Wait,” Alfred spake beside them, nearly startling Arthur.  It was the first time the Virginian had spoken for hours, preferring the security of silence.  “Ain’t the highlands where we’re headin’?  Are you sayin’ they’re in the middle of a war?  You aim to send Arthur into that?”  There was more heat in his words than Arthur expected of him, perhaps fueled by the rough whiskey.  Then, three pauses later, it finally occurred to the gentleman why Alfred might be upset.

That seemed to give Alisdair pause.  “Innae only but a bit o’ trouble,” he hedged, but apparently the whiskey had loosened his lips too much.  “Is it my fault thae the lad _wanted_ tae go there?”

“You coulda warned him ‘fore sending him to a battlefield,” Alfred replied, his voice and his eyes as cutting as ice.  “‘Less yer intentions were to profit from his death.”

As Arthur’s head snapped over to Alisdair, the man looked properly humiliated, bright red with embarrassment.  Either for his near-fatal error or for being caught in an opportunistic scheme.  Now Arthur would never be able to trust which.  “Well, now thae ye say it, it sounds fayre treacherous,” Alisdair admitted, “though I didnae ken thae it woulde do the lad any harm tae see some fight.”

Alfred’s gaze, however, did not soften in the least.  Leaving Arthur to cut in with a much more forgiving tone, “Cousin, perhaps you know of somewhere _else_ we coulde go which woulde be more hospitable?  You mention that Argyl is in Cromwell’s pocket.  Mayhaps we coulde travel to his shire hither without feare of harassment.  Hath you any advice for us?”

Seeing the out, Alisdair latched onto it immediately with his usual cheery smile.  “Aye, I’d be happy tae, lad.  Truth is, I worried thae ye might head into dangerous territory, but Arthur hath the blood o’ Clan Douglas, he does.  He’s as fiery an’ stubborn as they come.”  Thusly, he went on to the many virtues and vices of their supposedly shared heritage.  Once they managed to exact a promise of proper directions and a Gaelic translator, they retired to the single guestroom.

Alfred was stonily quiet as they made ready for bed, pulling out the trundle and stripping down to their shirts.  His face was still a hostile, unnerving red, his eyes hard as steel.  It was as though he were judging the gentleman and the innuendo of guilt frayed Arthur’s already worn sensibilities.  “Willst you speake?” he demanded as he sat on the edge of the bed, his tone more barbed than he intended.

“Art,” Alfred said.  It was all he could manage as he took a long breath and then spake, “What the mother-fucking hell.”

Thoroughly offended, Arthur coloured and said, “Excuse me.  I know naught how to answer that.”

“You trusted that snake?!  Who the hell is that cocksucker?!  You should let me kill him!” the Virginian demanded so violently that Arthur had to hush him with a hand to his mouth.  His words buzzed angrily under the gentleman’s palm, his blue eyes ready to murder.

“Alfred, I am sorry I did not tell you about him sooner,” Arthur said with as soothing tones as he could muster.  “Willst you calme so that I may explaine?”  When the Virginian gave his grudging assent, Arthur sat back onto the bed.  Taking a breath to calm himself, he took note of their surroundings. From the short doorway to the painted flowers in the timber.  “Twas my room, twelve years hence.  My grandfather sent me here for feare of the conflicte my father and brother threwn themselves into.  Never realizing, of course, the war woulde spreade up here.  I was hence moved back to the Hall as the air grew foul with war.  However, I was taken care of for a time.  Twoulde be a disservice to forget what he did.”

“It would be plain stupid to ignore what he just _tried_ to do,” Alfred muttered darkly.

“True,” Arthur agreed softly, finally seeing that his companion was merely angry for his benefit.  “However, twoulde do me little good to act on it now.  If twas innocent, then no harm done.  If twas malevolent, then you caught him and he will worke all the harder to stay in my good graces.  I will, of course, proceed with much more caution with him in the future.  And, well, he _is_ family.”  At Alfred's incredulous look, he merely smiled.  “Tis the way of things.  Believe me, the games of the nobility are far more treacherous.”

Alfred growled, but at least looked far less mutinous.  Instead he regarded the room that Arthur had called home and muttered, “Think the bed might be too short.”

Arthur immediately hit him with a pillow.  “Then feel free to take the floore,” he replied haughtily, settling into the high bed which was just right for his stature.

Heaving a great sigh, Alfred settled for the trundle, which was also too short.  “Hey Art,” he called, just as Arthur was settling into sleep.

“ _Yes_?”

“You really secretly Scottish?”

Arthur twitched.

~o~

“I hath but a drop of Douglas blood,” Arthur argued for the hundredth time they were on the road to Inverary.  “I woulde not deign to call upon the Earl of Angus with such claim.  The lairds woulde hath my head.”

“But it's _Castle Douglas,_ ” Alfred argued, managing to annoy Arthur further.  “Castle _Dangerous_ ,” he added, as if it were some holy sacrament.

“I was under the impression you were trying to keep your experiences a secret,” Arthur hissed at him, though their guide and translator, a man of ruddy complexion and build, was too far ahead to hear them.  

“It's set in 1300s Scotland.  It ain’t a secret,” Alfred scoffed.

“You are inconveniently well-read,” Arthur muttered with a shake of his head.  His gaze stole to the slowly rising countryside, the rolling hills slowly making themselves into deep lochs and sharp mountains.  “Whom do I thank for such literary prowess?”

Expecting more of the usual sudden silence, Arthur was surprised to hear the soft answer, “My Ma.”  He glanced over and found Alfred's attention stolen by wistful memory.  “She was a proper Lady, Ma.  She got all us a good tutor when work was slow durin’ summer and winter.  Sorta stuck after... all that.  I'd pick up books for readin’ when other fellas would jus’ use ’em to wipe their asses.  Got to be that they called me a layabout bookworm on account of my readin’ n’ my spectacles.”

Despite himself, Arthur let out a disbelieving bark of laughter.  Alfred did not mind.  In fact, he grinned.

“Well, I didn’ say they was right, did I?” he said, giving Arthur a wink.  The gentleman flushed.

Coughing lightly, Arthur asked, “So hath you any favourites?”  At once, he could see Alfred’s expression grow guarded when a question fell too close to prying.  “Oh come now.  What damage coulde that knowledge possibly cause?”

After a thoughtful moment, the Virginian saw the sense in this and shrugged.  “Well, I s'pose yer right...”  He looked up in thought, before betraying, “Well, Shakespeare n’ Walter Scott, of course.  Robinson Crusoe n’ Tom Sawyer were good too.  Paradise Lost, the Legend of Sleepy Hollow and the Baltimore Gun Club-”

The name gave Arthur a start, “Baltimore?  Not _that_ Lord Baltimore, surely?  That Popish, prick-eared villain has a gun-?”

“Baltimore’s a place, not a person,” Alfred interrupted impatiently, before giving Arthur the eye.  “Y’gonna make me regret talkin’?”  The gentleman quickly shook his head.  “Ain’t even like what yer thinkin’.  It’s about some folks tryin’ to shoot a cannonball with people in it to the moon.”  When the Englishman gave another tremendous start, he added, “It’s _fiction_.”

“...I see.”

“My newest favorite’s gotta be Moby Dick.  Read it thrice already.  How did that one line go again...?”  Alfred looked up in thought before he said most eloquently, “There are certain queer times ‘n occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life, when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke.  Though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, ‘n more than suspects, that the joke ain’t at nobody’s expense but his own.”

Arthur’s lips twitched into a smile.  “How appropriate.”

“I thought so,” the Virginian answered with a wry half-smile of his own.  Then something ahead caught his attention, cutting their amiable talk short.  At once, that jovial expression grew as sharp as a blade and he spurred his horse forward to see why the guide had stopped.  

A hand briefly touching over the pistol hidden in his doublet, Arthur went up to meet them on the crest of the hill.  The smell came before the sight, the sharpness of fire and smoke and underneath the rot of dead meat.  Though it was not a scent unfamiliar, it curled the stomach all the same.

The sight ahead of them was scarred with black burns swathed across the farmland.  Smoke billowed from burnt wood and thatch.  Survivors, women mostly, looked up from their grim task of lining corpses into rows in the hamlet’s square, whilst children and the infirmed watched on.  Their eyes were hard and haunted.  Not unlike the eyes that Alfred had.

“Soldiers or raiders?” Arthur asked reflexively, as they looked upon the ruin of a village.

“There any difference?” their guide growled darkly.

Wordlessly, Alfred dismounted from his horse and walked it into the center of the village.  His short hair helped him little as those close reared back from him as though he were poxied.  However, he went ahead undaunted and helped to heave the dead into rows for their last rites.  After a few moments of watching, the villagers saw no harm in him and reluctantly resumed their grim tasks.

“He isnae goenna do this ‘n every village, is he?” the guide remarked as he and Arthur watched the Virginian work.  “At this rate, we’ll never get tae Inverary.”

“Leave him be,” Arthur replied, though he had much the same sentiments.  Yet this was not one denied a man.  Especially one with so many daemons.  “Besides, we neede not go all the way to Inverary, if we but finde someone who has some working knowledge of fairies along the way.”

“Ach, ye’ll hath better luck in the Hebrides than Inverary,” their guide muttered.  “Though they’ll spit a’ yer feet soon as ye open yer gob.”

“Everyone hath plenty of advice, but no solutions, it seems,” Arthur remarked dryly, glancing over to the disgruntled man.  “Go down there and help him, will you?”  This only inspired more unhappy grumbling, but the man went and aided Alfred in his endeavour.

That night, they made it to the town of Tarbet along the massive Loch Lomond, where there was at least room for them to rent for the night in the local inn, along with an evening meal of mutton stew and cydre.  Alfred was quiet.  Arthur was as well, but that was for the sake of personal security.  Alfred was the kind of quiet that needed to fill the well of an aching soul.

~o~

The next morning, they began their search of a local wise woman in earnest.  Or folklorist.  Or a howdie (which did confuse Alfred a bit).  Really, anyone who didn't slam the door in their faces was a plus.  That was _before_ they spake.  Friendly bunch, those Highlanders.

They had some luck with one elderly lady who prescribed Alfred a juice of Rowan berries, which only made him ill later.  He was also given an amulet made of a molucca bean by some half-heathen priest, though they knew not what good it did.  Of course _then_ they found out that it was bad luck to even impart _any_ information related to the ‘Good People’, which helped matters not a bit.

Although Arthur could admit he was not wholeheartedly unhappy about their failures.  Scotland was not wholly unpleasant to look at if one ignored the people.  There was not a one that Arthur would more happily share the journey with.  However, their repeated failures were beginning to affect Alfred's countenance as his morale flagged.

“Maybe I jus’ need to _go_ to Virginia,” Alfred suggested after their third dreary rainy day on the coast.  He was clearly ill, both physically and at heart, his melancholy pervasively spreading to the rest of their party.  Even their guide, Dougie, was feeling sorry for him.  “I jus’ need to go _home._ ”

“Tis not a home you'll recognize,” Arthur tried to remind him, but the gunman was just having none of it.

“It’ll be better than _here._  Who the hell calls pie coffins?” Alfred went on.  “Ain't ye got enough coffins already?  Trade the coffins fer coffee.  Not even any coffee around.”  Arthur couldn't even get a word in that they _did_ have coffee in London.  “And who eats oysters and balls and cockheads in the same pot?  And _caudle_.  The cockfuck is that?”

Really, were Alfred's chief complaints going to be about food?

“He disnae sound right,” Dougie offered, giving the gunman a worried look.

“No, really, he's just from the colonies,” Arthur tried to cover, but their guide shook his head.

“Nae, he's delirious,” their guide insisted.  “Check his head.  He looks like he's on fire.”

Frowning, Arthur sidled up to Alfred's horse and took a bare hand to his flushed face.  It felt as though his blood was boiling.  Muttering a curse under his breath, Arthur took the reins from him, just as Alfred slumped onto his shoulder.  “We need a place for him to lie his head.  He cannot travel in this condition.”

Dougie peered through the mist and rain, before he spied small fires in the distance.  “There.  I'll go ahead.  Ye come after an’ approach when I say it's safe.”  With that, he spurred his horse into a gallop and flew ahead.  It was all Arthur could do to keep Alfred's large frame from tilting to the ground as he drew them closer at a much slower pace.

When they did come close, they found it was a small clutch of cottages including a barn and stable.  Dougie spake furiously with the proprietor, but he waved them over to take shelter in the barn.  They got Alfred down into a wool bed roll in the straw with the help of some the young hands.  By then it was clear that he was gravely ill, his face flushed and red while the rest of him was blue and cold.

“They're goin’ tae get the medicine man,” Dougie told him as they tried to get Alfred settled.  “He’ll take two days tae get here.”

“Doth he know anything of current medicine?” Arthur asked incredulously as he mopped up Alfred's brow and tried to keep the raving to a sane, non-heretical level.  Thankfully, he was saying nothing of the future and only groaning about the rain and cocks of various types, in language that grew increasingly vulgar.

“Those doctors in London dinnae ken their pricks from their arses,” the guide replied derisively.  “My Grandda lived fer 60 years without yer so-called proper medicine.  Sides, he needs tae live thru the night first, donnae he?”

Arthur had nothing to say to that.

The next days were hell as they fought against Alfred’s own delirium.  Even knowing his situation, hardly any of the words that the Virginian strung together made any sense.  Yet it was when he _did_ make sense that Arthur felt true horror.  Haunted by the spectres of his own war, Alfred cried names of ghosts yet to be, begged for brothers not to die, whether on the field or under the surgeon’s blade, and recounted in horrifying detail reports of the dead to his unseen commanding officer.  Arthur could only pray that the numbers Alfred touted were disfigured by his addled mind.  It was just simply not _possible_ for 50,000 souls to have perished in a single battle.

And every so once in awhile, like a repeating hymn, the gunman rasped, “Man... black...”

Finally, the medicine man arrived at the shepherd’s barn two days hence.  At once, Arthur liked not the look of him.  The medicine man looked like some pagan Druid in sackcloth and tartan, carrying bushels of herbs.  Decidedly _not_ a physician with any amount of schooling.  However, he seemed to hold some sway over the natives in equal measures of fear and respect.  The idea quickly formed in Arthur’s mind that this man may have made some compacte with the _Devil_.

He swore not to leave Alfred’s side for a moment.  A pact that was quickly tested as Arthur was unceremoniously pulled aside by rough shepherd's’ hands as their pagan idol neared.

The satanic Druid did a physical examination of his patient.  Alfred had grown too weak to rave about the future and the present, his breath thin and rasping.  He turned away everything, even small ale.  In the face of this, the medicine man asked entirely too little questions, then pulled out some bark to pound in a mortar.  It was given to the farmwife to boyle into a steeped soup.

“What is that? _Dirty plants_ ?” Arthur demanded, though he was clearly in the minority.  “He needs a _sound_ cure.  Hath you not a pigeon to cut in half?”  However, he was hushed violently and threatened to be physically removed.  Especially when they realized that he was _English_.  However, some cajoling words from their guide to the shepherd kept Arthur from being thrown into the dark and nearby to Alfred, so long as he had no more protests.

The farmwife returned with the dish of broth, which was then eased through parched paper lips.  Arthur did not know whether to be relieved or vexed when it did nothing.

“His fever shoulde break overnight,” Dougie informed him of the medicine man’s Gaelic.  “He just needs tae drink more medicine broth when he can.”  He and the Devil's Druid exchanged some more words, when Dougie added with more uncertainty.  “An’ he says thae he might be able tae help ye.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“With yer fairy problem.”

Arthur stared.  “And how couldst he possibly know that?”

“Says yer friend has the look of a changeling,” Dougie added slowly.  His gaze was significant, heavy with hidden accusation.  However, he must have suspected all along that the pair of them were not merely out in search of fairy folklore for a book, as he said nothing of it.  “He’ll stay ‘til Jones gets better.”

 _If_ Alfred got better.  Arthur wrapped his arms around himself as he watched him breathe, as if that would still his nerves from burning themselves out like candlewick.

“Ye shoulde rest,” Dougie told him as he settled back into his own straw-cushioned bed roll.  “Dinnae ken I coulde handle two sick outlanders.”

Arthur did not do as he advised.  Instead he kept vigil along with the Druid.  Neither spake, separated not just by language but by a sharp ravine of distrust.  However, they watched long into the little hours of the morning.

It was an hour before dawn, before some sign of life trembled underneath the gunman’s sickly pallour.  He grunted faintly, his muscles flexing as he seemed to come back into himself.  Arthur was by him immediately, ignoring the gaelic curse of the medicine man.  “Alfred?  Alfred, are you alright?” he asked softly, taking the larger rougher hand in his.

“Ma?” Alfred mumbled, before his eyes fluttered open.  He didn’t seem to recognize him at first, but then as thoughts settled, his blue eyes grew lucid and bittersweet with relief and sadness.  “Thought Ma was here...”

From the way he spake, Arthur did not doubt that his mother had departed from the world, though she had yet to be in it.  “She may hath been,” the gentleman allowed, squeezing Alfred’s hand.

After that, it was simply a matter of time for Alfred to recover.  He was thoroughly embarrassed by his behaviour when he was feverish and delusional, especially when all his petty complaints came to light.  He blushed in a most endearing fashion when Arthur spake of it, hiding his face behind a well calloused hand though that didn’t hide his burning ears.  “Art, I didn’ mean to complain like that.  Honest to God,” he swore.  “Everythin’s jus’ more different than I let on, is all.”

However, Arthur was only amused, pure relief had made him giddy.  “Tis forgotten,” he promised, before he smiled, “Actually it comes as something of a relief.”

“What does?” Alfred asked with a frown.

“That you are human,” the gentleman replied, his smile broadening when the Virginian blushed again.

When Alfred was somewhat back to normal, they finally decided to address the matter that had been circling above like a murder of ravens.  This medicine man, this _Druid,_ clearly knew something of what befell Alfred.  Arthur still did not trust the man within an inch of his life, but at this point there was little for them to do but parlay with those who practice in sorcery.  With Dougie to translate, they spake outside around a campfire since the shepherds would not have this Druid even into their homes.  It boded ill for their own little party.

Dougie also looked uneasy as they spake in Gaelic undertones, before he finally addressed Alfred and Arthur both.  “He says Jones disnae belong tae this worlde,” he said as he looked on the Virginian with renewed wariness.  “An’ thae death hangs ontae him like stone.”

Whilst Alfred grew only more sombre, Arthur quickly rose to his defense.  “But of course he does.  Everyone who’s fought in the war does.  Tis hardly unique,” he snapped irritably.

Another brief exchange of Gaelic and Dougie clarified, “Nae, tis hangin’ ontae him like an anchor, tho he dinnae ken how.  Only thae the purpose is revenge.”  Despite himself, the gentleman gave an unseemly start and his eyes turned over to Alfred for confirmation.  The Virginian did not look at him, or at anything.  His gaze focused on some inner turmoil.  However, Dougie brought their attention back, when he said more reluctantly than ever, “It may be better not tae try tae undo it.  There’s only one solution he has and he says it innit nae solution at all, save for the lost and desperate.  It’s... _evil._ ”

A sharp chill ran down Arthur’s skin, his eyes widening.  Right.  Well, if the Devil-worshipper said it was bad, clearly they should have nothing to do with it.  He was just about to say so, when Alfred cut in.  “What is it?”

Exchanging a look with the medicine man, Dougie relayed slowly.  “Taigheirm.”  

It was a word said with such dread, that the chills came back tenfold and Arthur felt himself grow icy.  The Virginian too must have been affected, for it took him a moment longer to ask, “What is that?”

Thusly did their guide speak, accompanied by the eerie drone of Gaelic from the Druid, “Tis a ritual us’d to call the Devil himself thru his earthly agents.  The last time it was performed was on the Isle of Mull, when two young unmarried men, Allan Mac Echan and Lachain Oer, made offerings tae the Evil Spirit in exchange for two boons.  Fer four nights an’ four days, they fasted and made sacrifice of living cats roasted on the spit whilst life remained.  When the beast died it was replaced with one anew.  Infernal spirits began tae enter the barn where this foul deed was done in the form of black cats and spake tae Allan and Lachain Oer and scream’d in the night along with the cries of the cats on the spit.

“Then a’ last an enormous cat appear’d and spake to Lachain Oer that if he did not desist before his great-eared brother arrived, he woulde never behold the face of God.  Lachain answered that if all the devils in hell came, he woulde not flinch from his task.  That fourth night, there was a cat on every rafter in that barn and their howls coulde be heard beyond the Sound of Mull-”

Until then, Arthur listened in rapt horror, dread gripping him until he could stand no longer.  “Stop.   _Stop._  I’ll hear no more _,_ ” he begged, putting a hand up in surrender.  He looked to Alfred, who had also gone more pale than was healthy.  “Alfred, you _cannot_ mean to do this,” he spake, his voice quaking from fear.  “You woulde make a compacte with the Devil.  Your eternal soul woulde be held in damnation.”

Alfred merely glanced his way, but there was a grim resolution  to his eye that shook the Englishman to his soul.  “Alfred,” he said more softly, “what coulde be worth such a price?”  The gunman pressed his lips into a thin line and subtly shook his head.  Resolutely, Arthur turned back to them, “There must be something else we coulde do.”

Dougie looked all too happy to relay this back to the Druid.  Whilst they conferred, Arthur tried unsuccessfully to catch Alfred’s eye to discern what made his soul so restless.  Then the guide brought their attention back to him.  “There’s other auguries thae he coulde do.  Wounnae be a fix like the Taigheirm, but I won’ lie - I’m nae sorry ye won’ try it.  But tae tell the truth, the answers in these auguries is ambiguous at best.”

“I am sure twoulde still be preferable,” Arthur replied quickly, but was surprised when Alfred suddenly spake.

“I hearda Taghairn ‘fore,” he cut in, surprising everyone.  In a low voice for Arthur, he explained, “Walter Scott.  Was in Lady of the Lake.  Took me a bit to piece together.”  To the whole, he said, “There’s other types, ain’t there?  Spooky stuff meanta scare the bejeezus outta anyone who did it so that their imaginations ran wild.  Why, he ain’t nothin’ but a snake oil salesman.”

Though the term simply befuddled Dougie into perplexion, Arthur spied a most curious expression on the face of one who apparently spake no English - irritation.  Alfred must have seen it as well, since his lips curled into a weary half-smile.  “Much obliged to you fer helpin’ me outta that fever,” he said directly to the Druid with a respectful nod, “but I reckon that’s the extent that yer knowledge takes you.”  Pushing himself up to his feet, he said, “I think we wasted enough time here on my account.  I’ll jus’ go n’ pay my respects to our host and hostess ‘fore we head out.  Dougie, some help?”

With that, he took their guide with them to thank the shepherd family, leaving Arthur in the company of the viper.  The gentleman gave him but a look of utter contempt.  “Thou hast preyed upon my companion’s hopes at his most vulnerable, despicable worm.  Weret thou on my lands, I woulde hath thee sent to the gallows.”

The medicine man merely scoffed softly, but said nothing.  To do so would have been to admit his deception.

When Alfred returned, he looked straight at his supposed saviour and said, “Look we’re headin’ out, so no harm done.  I jus’ wanna ask, if you know of anythin’ that could help us out, I’d be glad to pay you for yer troubles.”  He took out a small pouch and shook it to give off the sound of tinkling metal.

It worked like a magic spell, for the medicine man turned to Dougie in a most austere manner and spake to him.  Their guide translated with well-earned skepticism, “You need a Tabhaisver, a Seer, or someone with the Second-Sight who can summon the Good People with a spell.  He says there is one on the Isle of Skie.”  He took one look at the sheer weariness on their faces and broke from his translation to say, “I know o’ one a wee bit closer.  Won’ take but four days ride.”

“Thank you,” Alfred said with a rush a relief and tossed a couple coins to the medicine man.  “For yer troubles.”  Leaving the fraud and their hosts behind, they began the sojourn to their next destination.

With their guide leading the way, Arthur sidled his horse up to Alfred’s and took stock of his expression.  As always, he gave little away though there was a tiredness there that seemed to age him several years.  “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

“I’m good,” Alfred replied, putting up a smile for his benefit.  “Jus’ feelin’ off from the fever, Art.  I promise.”

It did not fool the gentleman one bit.  “Very well,” he said, “if you also promise not to push yourself too hard.”  The remembrance of Alfred’s great need to go home, however, worried him.  As he worried his lip, he said softly, “Is there some great mission you must fulfil back in your home?”

“Art...” Alfred chastised wearily.

“There is, is there not?” Arthur pressed, looking hard at him now.  “Why else woulde you even consider dark magicke?”  When all he got was stony silence, he said, “Alfred, you know you can tell me anything.”

The Virginian stayed silent for so long that Arthur was sure that he had been ignored and dismissed.  With only the sound of the rushing forest and the clop of hooves to answer him, he all but gave up as to let Alfred dwell, when the other man said suddenly, “I remember a bit more.  ‘Bout when I came here.”

“You do?” Arthur asked in surprise.

A nod.  “Mighta been a fever dream, to be honest,” Alfred said as he looked onwards along the small footpath.  “But it seemed too real.”  He briefly dug into his leather coat and produced a bright silver object.  A star in a wheel.  There was some engraving on it, but Alfred held it too far for him to read it.  “I couldn’t figure out for the lifea me why I had this hidden away when I came to.  Thought I’d lost it ‘fore I found it at the very bottom of my bag.  Ain’t no reason for it to be there.  ‘Less I was up to somethin’ that would shame me to wear it.”  Tucking the silver away, Alfred finally met Arthur’s gaze.  There was a coldness there that was unsettling.  “Now I remember I was.”

For the first time, Arthur found himself shaken by his companion that had nothing to do with his strangeness.  Swallowing, he said, “What do you remember?”

Once again, the gunman was quiet for a time, though he was sifting through his thoughts.  Sorting what to say and what not to.  “I think...” he said, then he closed his eyes and took a breath, “I think I might be dead.”

~o~

Naturally, the Virginian did not elaborate further on that point.  For once, Arthur had no wish to interrogate him.  There were just some things one did not wish to know.  Moreover, it was clear that Alfred had more muddling to do through his own fever’d memories.  Thus they did proceed with their journey, with Alfred entrenched in his thoughts and Arthur floating on the uneasy silence.  Their guide seemed to sense the change in atmosphere and stayed far ahead of them during the ride.

They arrived at the small village where the supposed Seer was to reside.  The Lady Seer lived in a mud hut just on the outskirts of the hamlet, amidst vegetable patches and hay.  It did not exactly fit Arthur’s image of the great oracles of Greece and Rome to say the least.  “Are you sure this is the right place?” he asked skeptically as they approached the hovel.

“Aye, me sister’s husband’s sister visited once,” Dougie replied to them as he dismounted from his horse.  “Tae be honest with ye, the visions were fair useless, but she spake only truth.”

“What a ringing endorsement,” the gentleman remarked dryly, causing Alfred to make a huff of laughter.  It was the first pleasant sound that the Virginian made for many hours, which cheered Arthur to some degree.  “Well, I suppose we shall see what she has to say.”

As they approached the door, it swung open and a buxom young woman with brilliant untamed flaming hair stared out at their little party with a most rude expression.  She called out something in Gaelic, which Arthur didn’t doubt was also quite rude.  Dougie replied, which only made the wench throw up her hands in the air in exasperation.  However, she did leave the door open, so Dougie gestured them to follow.

Inside was as thoroughly depressing as Arthur expected.  A dark one room hovel with dirt floors, vegetables and herbs drying in the rafters, and worn furniture scattered around.  To its credit, there was a nice hot fire in the center that helped to warm away the damp that had seemed to soak into their bones.  The so-called Seer and their guide exchanged some more words, though it seemed as though the three of them were seen more as a nuisance than potential victims.

Dougie relayed back to them, “She wants ye to ken thae the Second Sight isnae somethin’ she can jus’ summon on a whim.  Or thae anythin’ she says will be of use tae ye.  She is a wee bit tired of folks showin’ up an’ seekin’ answers an’ findin’ none they want.”

“Pray tell, what enticement woulde excite her visions?” Arthur said, in a tone that was a touch dry.  He regretted it immediately, as the wench sensed his sarcasm and looked fit to throw them from her home.

However, Alfred made a gesture as if to silence the gentleman and took off his hat to give the Seer a small bow of his head.  “Ma’am, we’re very sorry for disturbing you like this.  We’ve been on the road for some weeks now and have not found any success.  Any help you could provide would be much appreciated, no matter how small.”

There was clearly something in his disposition that she approved of, and well, Alfred was not exactly sore on the eye, for she gave a thin nod as Dougie translated.  To which she replied and Dougie relayed, “She says she cannae do much, but we’re welcome tae stay fer three days an’ no more.  She’ll let us know anythin’ she sees whilst we’re here.”

Alfred gave her an irritatingly handsome smile before he donned his hat again.  “Is there anythin’ she needs doin’ round the place?” he asked Dougie.  “We’re willin’ to work for our keep.”

“What do you mean _we_?” the gentleman groused, before being elbowed in the ribs.

When this was relayed, the wench gave the pair of them a wicked smile.

Thus were they conscripted into doing manual labour for absolutely no guarantee of any reward.  Arthur thought it was absolutely ludicrous.  More so because it was appalling that one of his station would be subjected to such menial tasks as fetching water or sifting in the dirt to pull up vegetables.  It was the work of farmers, not the landed Gentry!  Good God, if anyone he knew of back home could see him, he would never live it down.

Moreover, he was certainly not above making his complaints known.  Particularly to the one that landed him in this literal mess.  “I cannot _believe_ this,” he complained as he looked down at the untilled ground with utter contempt.  For all his hacking at the earth, he had but a wet mess and blisters to show for it.  “This is _your_ fault,” he told Alfred, who seemed all too handy with a whatever-that-thing-was-called.  “Were it not for you, I woulde be back at my manor drinking claret, hunting game, doing _anything_ else besides working someone else’s land.”

Alfred looked nothing but amused.  “Art, you better put that hoe down,” so _that_ was what it was called, “yer liable to hurt yourself.”  He had long since changed back to his own shirt and breeches, finding them far more comfortable for the purposes of manual labour.  It was not a look that ill-suited him.  It seemed some of the wenches in the village thought so as well, as they watched him work for unnecessarily long pauses.  Or they just came to laugh at the Englishman.

“I am sorry that I hath never handled one of these before!” Arthur replied crossly.  They likely looked a sight, two noble English speakers arguing in a Highlander vegetable patch.  “What vexes me is how you know how to use one of these, being yourself a landed gentleman.”

“Huh?” Alfred replied intelligently, halting his work mid... hoe.

“You hath owned farmland yourself, hath you not?” Arthur demanded, propping a hand on his hip.  “Why woulde you know how to till land?”

The gunman blinked at him.  “How would you-  I never said nuthin’ ‘bout owning a farm.”

Arthur looked at him in startlement, for he had not realized it himself.  “Well, tis obvious.  You spake of losing all you owned after your civil war.  What is the first thing to go during war?  Farmland.  You hath noted your own private tutelage with the thanks of your Lady mother during the seasons of summer and winter, when one does not need worry about sowing and harvesting.  Moreover, the fact that you _are_ educated and hath such fineries on your person, suggest that you were not without resources.  So you are - or were - an owner, rather than mere tenant.”

Alfred stared.  “Yer more perceptive than I gave you credit,” he said after a moment of wonder.

“So I am right,” the gentleman said with a smug smile.  “You farmed tobacco, didn’t you.”

However, the Virginian only gave him a queer look.  “I dunno if I should say anythin’ more.  It’s like you can suss out the truth without my even knowin’.”

“Alfred, we are in the middle of the Highlands where the only people around cannot understand a word you say,” Arthur said with a scoff.  “You can tell me whether or not you grew _tobacco_.”

After a moment of wrestling with the question, Alfred finally relented, “Alright, fine.  It was tobacco.”  The cheer and wave of his hoe that Arthur performed was unbecoming of a gentleman, but it was _nice_ to finally be right about something about his guest.  Despite himself, Alfred could not help but smile.  “Careful, ye’ll poke someone’s eye out.”

“Well, you never answered my question,” Arthur said, once he recovered his dignity.  “How is it that you know something of farming?”

“Because we were well off, but not as well off as the biggest um- _farms_ ,” Alfred replied as he resumed his tilling of the earth.  “We boys was expected to do work alongside everyone else.  Else Pa would come round ‘n cane us for bein’ lazy.”

“And you were a model son,” Arthur guessed, to which Alfred scoffed.

“Naw, I was the troublemaker,” the Virginian replied with a wry grin.  “I snuck off all the time to read.  Pa paid me back with beatin’ ‘n extra work.  But I knew from the start farmin’ weren’t for me.  I snuck off to fight in the war on account I wanted to be a hero like in one of those books.  Weren’t but twelve years old.”  He slowly ceased his work, his expression turning cold as the memory passed over his features like a death mask.  “I was nuthin’ but a fool.”

Arthur knew naught what to say.  There was no easy path to take, for fear that he would turn Alfred into a blacker mood with memories of a past (or future) he could not change.  Perhaps it was better simply to say nothing at all.  ‘Well,” he said, by way of distraction, “since you are such an expert on these matters, you shoulde shew me how to hold this thing so I do not get sores.”

His ploy worked as Alfred drew himself out of his thoughts and scoffed again.  “That’s called not havin’ such baby-soft hands,” he replied, much at Arthur’s expense.  “You should try doin’ real work for once.  Might be good for you.”

The gentleman’s cheeks reddened.  Oh, that is riche,” he snapped, tossing the hoe aside into the dirt, “coming from the bespectacled paper worm who likely ruined his eyes by candlelight reading.”  In absolutely no mood to hear Alfred’s cajoling that he was merely jesting, he rounded back to the entrance to the hovel to stay until the gunman came to apologize.

Arthur had a small start when he found the Seer staring right at him as he entered.  However, his irritation only mounted at the sight of her.  “Mr. Jones will be doing enough work for the both of us,” he informed her, though it was not much use with Dougie off hunting.  However, he did not expect a complete non-reaction.  She still stared, her gaze unfocused.  “Wench,” Arthur called, waving a hand in front of her face, “didst thou not hear me?”

With a frown, he put a hand to her shoulder to shake her.

That was when the world began spinning.  It nearly undid him, but he found himself unable to let go.  A hand had come up to his, holding him firmly in this state.  Then he realized it was not _the_ world, but a world superimposed on the one he knew.  His breath quickened as he saw things that he knew _could_ not be.  Water rushing in the thatch, crumbled mud and stone, a halo of darkness surrounding the witch.  The door suddenly opened, opened thrice, as two men stepped into the hovel.

One was just a boy, his ghastly ruined gray jacket covered in dirt, brain and blood.  Fire licked at the sleeves of his coat, but he did not scream, did not move as it began to consume him.  The man beside him was Alfred, but one that was unrecognizable to him.  He was scarred and weathered, with eyes sunken like the face of a skull.  He wore all black, blacker than tar, even the broad-brimmed hat that hid most of his face from view as he looked down to the gun in his hands.  The rifle he so treasured, dripping with blood, rose up.  It leveled to Arthur’s eyes and he stared down its barrel to the hollow darkness.  He knew at once that he was about to die.

Metal clicked, and the world exploded.

~o~

“Art!  Art, wake up!”

The words came through to him as though spoken through warm, wet honey.  His mind afog, the ceiling to the thatch roof came swimming into view.  Two molten faces hovered over him, one of them far more insistent than the other.  A hand slapped his cheek, the pain sending a shock of reality to his senses as everything came fully into focus.

Alfred’s worried face peered down at him.  “Thank the Lord,” he breathed, putting a hand to Arthur’s stinging cheek.  “Art, you alright?”

Arthur jerked violently under him, pushing up and away into a sitting position as quickly as he could.  He panted sharply, the bloody living nightmare still painted across his vision like an open wound.  “Keep away from me!”

“Art, what-” the gunman started, his blue eyes wide with confusion.  However, the Seer put a hand to his shoulder to keep him from going any closer.  She was fully lucid it seemed, though she seemed not at all affected by the vision she had spread onto Arthur like a contagion.  Frowning, Alfred sat back on the floor, now studying the gentleman as one would an injured beast.  “Art?” he questioned softly, “It’s jus’ me, Art.  Y’know me.  Y’know I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Arthur flinched as he came just a bit closer, but his panic began to settle and his breathing evened.  Even so, his whole world had been utterly shaken.  His green eyes snapped up to the fiery haired wench and he hissed sharply, “ _Witch_.  Devil-foul’d trickster!  Satan’s seductress!”

“Okay, hold on.   _Hold on,_ ” Alfred said as he put a hand to the gentleman’s shoulder and gave it a placating squeeze.  “Jus’ tell me what happened.  I came in here ‘n you jus’ passed right out in fronta me.”

Snarling, Arthur pointed a finger at the foul woman, “That _witch_ put a spell on me.  Made me _see_ things.”

“Things?  What things?” the Virginian demanded, his interest suddenly more intense.  “Art, was it the visions that Dougie was talking about?”

“How coulde it be?” the Englishman scoffed.  “None of it made any sense!  All I saw was fire and death!”  And his own doom at Alfred’s hands, but he certainly was not going to say _that_ aloud.  Pushing himself up to his feet, he declared, “I refuse to stay here any longer.  Not in _her_ den.”

“Art, Art, _hush,_ ” Alfred said, switching back to placating him.  “Let’s jus’ at least wait until Dougie comes back and we can see what she has to say for herself.  If she - if you _both_ \- saw somethin’, then it might be we needn’t stay anyway.”

Arthur considered this for a moment, whilst the Seer muttered something rude in Gaelic and went back to the business of carding wool.  “Fine,” the gentleman said after a moment’s deliberation, “but no longer.  I will be outside.”  

Thus he headed out of the oppressive heat of the hovel and back into the cold misty air.  He went to the barn they had been occupying and began to pack up their things.  It was mindless work, meant to try to drive away the memory of those awful visions.  It did no good and he found himself trembling again.  Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to breathe to calm himself.  “It’s not real,” he whispered breathlessly, “it’s not true.  None of it’s true.”

An hour or so later, Dougie finally returned to the hamlet with a couple of other men, carrying various game such as grouse and hare.  At once, his services were required as Alfred enlisted him to translate the vision that the Seer had seen.  With the four of them sharing the fire in the Seer’s hovel, Dougie listened to the words with a frown of consternation, asking a few clarifying questions, before he deemed it ready to speak.  For his part, Alfred could hardly contain himself, sitting forward on his stool, waiting with bated breath for their guide to speak.  Arthur was far less eager, though he kept an ear to the conversation from morbid curiosity.

“She says ye’ll find no more o’ what yer lookin’ fer here,” Dougie said after a time, “What ye saw was enough.  Iffen ye want tae fix things, ye need tae go back tae whence ye came.”  His next words sent a coldness through him that Arthur never thought possible.  “There’s somethin’ wrong in ye.”

“Yes, I know I shouldn’ be here,” Alfred started with mild annoyance, before Dougie interrupted him.

“Nae, _him_ ,” he insisted, pointing a finger at Arthur.  His ruddy face was grim and hard as he addressed him, “Ye know how, donnae ye?” he asked, as the gentleman grew pale.  “Aye, ye do.  Ye saw it in the vision.  Ye cheated God and someone has tae pay the price.”  Arthur could feel Alfred’s stare on him, but he could not meet those blue eyes.  Dougie leaned back, watching the guilt flicker across Arthur’s face.  “She says it isnae her place tae tell him.  Thae is yer burden now.”

“...I see,” Arthur replied shortly.

Dougie sighed and heaved himself up to his feet.  “Right, well, I suppose we had better get goin’.”  He spake something in Gaelic to the Seer and she muttered some greeting back, though her amber eyes stayed fixated on the Englishman.  They followed at his back, threatening to forever.

“Hey now, wait a minute,” Alfred protested, but the guide and the gentleman already departed from the hovel.  The gunman caught up quickly enough, catching Arthur’s arm to keep him from the horses.  “Art, are you gonna tell me what’s goin’ on or ain’t you?” he demanded.  Arthur could not help but flinch at the hurt in those words.

“Alfred, I want to go home,” he spake softly, unable to meet his gaze.  “You heard her.  There’s nothing more this country can offer us.”  Besides, if he were to die, he wanted to do it in his own native homeland.  However, Alfred did not relent, still holding him tighter.  “Alfred, _please,_ ” he begged, barely more than a whisper.

Alfred watched him, long and hard, the cold accusation rising up in his eyes.  Finally, he let Arthur go, allowing him to turn back to his mare and mount her.  On his own horse, Dougie declared, “I’ll take ye back tae Glasgow.  I’m sure ye can make yer own way home from there.”

“Of course.  Thank you,” Arthur replied, which was the first kind word he ever gave their guide.  Alfred took the rear of their group, staring daggers into the gentleman’s back as they took to the road for one final time.

~o~

The journey back to Kirkland Hall was painfully quiet.  The weight of Arthur’s unsaid words hung betwixt them like the shadow of the gallows, stifling any cheery discourse.  They met with little trouble, save for a small trio of highwaymen that Alfred dispatched from afar.  It was not long before the familiar hills of Lacanshire came into view.  

Alfred had since resigned himself to the fact that he would not get a word out of the gentleman and seemed at peace with it.  Yet as Arthur spied the walls of his beloved manor, a trembling restlessness came over him.  So much so that Alfred took note and inquired after him.  However, Arthur only shook his head and would not speak.

When they arrived back from their long journey, Arthur’s servants were immediately ready to welcome them and relieve them of their filthy tack and dirty clothes.  The utter grime of traveling for so long had caked upon him and Arthur wanted nothing more than to make himself _clean._  Even before taking in food, Arthur asked of the gunman, “You said you bathed in the Wyre?”

Alfred looked quite startled, for it was the most words Arthur had spoken to him in as many days.  “Yessir,” he replied, before he frowned, “I thought you didn’ like baths.”

“I am making an exception,” Arthur told him curtly.  He waved a hand to his servant and said, “You are free to start dinner without me.  I shant be long.”

In the heat of summer, the Wyre was pleasantly warm when Arthur got to it.  He stripped down to nothing but a clean shirt for modesty and sank down into the familiar waters to scrub himself clean.  That task done, he felt not like heading back, so he swam out into the deeper waters to take advantage of this rare pleasure.  Memories of playing on the banks as a boy came to him, hitting him with a tender ruthlessness that he did not expect.  He remembered how his mother would chastise him when he returned soaking wet, saying he would catch his death in the river.  He merely laughed with all the naive joy of a child.

Arthur’s eyes pricked with tears and he submerged himself to douse them.  Peering up at the light dancing off the surface of the water, it reminded him too keenly of the water crashing over the thatch in that witch’s home.  Was this all related to his death?  She didn’t say.  Perhaps drowning would be a more preferable method to go, rather than at the bloody end of a musket barrel.

He heard a voice cry out for him above the water.  That imbecilic nickname that Alfred so assigned him.  His peaceful thoughts shattered just as the Virginian crashed through the surface of the water along the bank.  Thoroughly annoyed, Arthur brought himself out of the water to glare at his intruder.  “Alfred, _what_ are you doing here?” he demanded.

However, his irritation could not help but wane at the sight of the flushed and panicked gunman, in water waist deep in all of his own clothes.  “You-” he panted, out of breath from some form of exertion, “You was takin’ so long, so I thought somethin’ mighta happened to you.  Then I saw you underwater ‘n my mind jus’...”  His cheeks reddened, his expression twisting with mortification.  “M’sorry.  I’ll leave you alone.”  He spun around, beginning to climb up onto the bank.

Arthur watched his back for but a moment.  Then in one rash moment of his own, he went underwater, grabbed one of the gunman’s ankles and _pulled._  Alfred went down like a flopping fish on dry land.  Choking, sputtering and completely soaked, he pushed himself up and whirled around to face his assailant.  Only to stop short as the gentleman burst into laughter.  It was the kind of mad, carefree laughter that was utterly infectious, for Alfred soon was grinning wide.  He retaliated by throwing a wave of water in Arthur’s face.  Thus they devolved into playing in the water like wild boys.

“Well, I’m glad yer enjoyin’ yerself,” Alfred panted, drying off of the riverbank some time later.  “I was worried ‘bout you, y’know.  You’ve been down ever since we left that... lady.”  He did not say Seer.  That word had become worse than blasphemy.

The reminder could have bothered him, but Arthur was thoroughly distracted from barely being able to look at the other man.  All of Alfred’s clothes lay on the shore, save his drawers, eating up what sunlight they could before they headed back.  The gentleman was not so immodest, letting himself dry in his shirt, though the chill kept him huddled around himself.  He kept his gaze carefully averted from Alfred’s broad chest and muscled limbs though his ears still coloured with heat.  “Yes, well,” he said with a light cough, “I had been subject to dark, supernatural forces.  Twas only natural that I woulde be melancholic whilst my humours resettled.”

“Er, right,” Alfred said uncertainly, “Well, whatever it was, I’m glad yer back to normal.”  A pause.  “You _are_ back to normal, ain’t you?” he asked with some hesitation.

Arthur let out a faint hum as he mulled this over.  “I think,” he said after a penseive moment, “I hath accepted the situation.  We were never meant to meet, you and I.  Yet I woulde not hath traded it for the world.”  He turned, pressing a cheek to the top of his knee, and gave Alfred a small smile.  “I hath enjoyed each and every moment, these past months with you.”

Alfred stared at him, his usually steel blue eyes bright with an emotion he could not discern.  Suddenly, quicker than Arthur could blink, he lunged forward and caught Arthur’s mouth up in a kiss.  The suddenness of it felled Arthur back onto his elbows and he was left there stunned.  “Wha-” he gasped, “why did you do that?”

Alfred answered him with a faint smile, “Because you jus’ looked so sad.”  However, the smile began to fade, the longer silence lingered.  Wordlessly, Alfred made to move, to leave Arthur’s side.

Oh Hell, the Devil was going to take him anyway.

Before he could move away, Arthur snatched Alfred’s wrist to keep him from departing.  The gunman looked down at the captured joint, before his blue eyes trailed up to meet Arthur’s gaze.  He must have seen there what Arthur had so long tried to suppressed - the carnal need, the aching tenderness - for his lips parted and he let out a faint wheeze.  “Jesus Christ,” he blasphemed, which was rather indelicate for the moment.

Which was why Arthur kissed him back, so hard and so soundly that he could speak no more.

~o~

It was a hellish gift, to be able to choose the day of one’s death.  But it was a gift, no less.

Arthur wanted to die on a bright and sunny day.  He wore his best clothes, a velvet green hunting suit, that made him think of Robin Hood and his merry band.  He made sure that he was clean, washing his face and hands with expensive lilac soap and that his hair was in good curl without a single knot.  He wrote a letter, a will, to be found amongst his belongings, finally giving his cousin his due and ownership of his lands, as long as he took care of Demetrius and Lysander.

Yes, he was ready for death, he thought as he took a last look at himself in the watery mirror in his bedchamber.  Except Alfred nearly undid him, as he came up from behind and wrapped him up in his arms.  “Good mornin’,” he purred, right before he nibbled on his ear.

Arthur closed his eyes and shuddered, before pushing Alfred back away from him.  “Alfred,” he spake, his voice soft but clear, “I need you to gather everything you own.   _Everything._ ”

Sensing the change, Alfred took a step back from him.  His eyes widened for a fraction, before his expression grew to that hard and grim stoniness.  “You sure?” he asked quietly.

Arthur swallowed hard.  “Tis time,” he said, peering up at the gunman’s reflection in the mirror.  “Go get your things.”  The Virginian watched him for a moment longer, then wordlessly turned on his heel to do as he was bid.

It was surreal to be riding back to the wood where they first met.  They both were silent, unable to overcome the gravity of their task.  Arthur stopped them at a familiar spot and beckoned for Alfred to do the same.  He curled his fingers around Alfred’s, leading them down the slope to where the fairy ring lay.

The husk of Alfred’s horse was gone, either taken by wolves or transported by spirits that took objection to it covering their hallow-ring.  It lay as it did months ago, a ring of dark green in bright sunlit-dappled grass.  Taking a sharp breath, Arthur turned to take one last kiss from the gunman’s lips.  It was slow, arduous, like a promise left unfulfilled.  Words that would be forever unsaid.

Once they parted, Arthur licked his lower lip, savouring the warm tingle of his lips.  Then he took the Colt from his person and presented it to the gunman.  “Here,” he breathed.  “Take it.”

Alfred seemed to have all but forgotten about it, so he took the weapon almost warily.  When he did, Arthur knelt down in front of him, as though he were kneeling before the altar.  “Now,” he spake, “kill me.”

Alfred reared back, his whole body an expression of shock.  “What?  What?!” he cried, looking as though the gentleman had struck him.

“Tis the condition for you to go home,” Arthur replied, looking fearlessly up at him.  “I was meant to die and you hath saved me.  Tis irony indeed that the false Druid was right.  Tis a death that anchors you here.  The death unanswered.  So you must kill me to go fulfill your duty and God’s plan.”

“Art, that's insane. I ain't gonna kill you,” Alfred hissed, putting his pistol back into its holster.  “Get up.  Yer goin’ home.  I ain't gonna have no part of this.”

However, Arthur refused to move.  “I saw it, Alfred.  You were the Reaper, come to kill me.  I was meant to die and you hath denied me that fate.  More importantly, we hath denied God.  This fairy trick has played us both into the hands of Satan.  A death is required.  It should be mine.”

“Art,” Alfred spake, his voice nearly pleading, “I _told_ you, I wasn't gonna let anythin’ happen to you long as I'm around.”

“Then make it quick and save me from the Inferno,” the gentleman said, raising his chin up in defiance.  “I hath heirs to take care of my land.  I am without ambition, without mission.  I scorned the name of my father and my brother for the sake of my own survival.  My life is without worth.  Tis better for you to take it.”

“And what if I don'?” Alfred asked defiantly, his eyes blazing like wildfire.

“Then you stay here, forever,” the gentleman answered simply.  “To settle with me.  You and I both know that will never stand.  Your mission calls you.”

The Virginian clenched his jaw tightly, but at least did not do him the disrespect of denying it.  Anger rose in those steely blue eyes, the anger of being cornered without options.  It was more terrible than any other, for helplessness was the most painful of all manacles.

Arthur sought to save him from any choice.  “Take your pistol out,” he ordered.  “Hold it to my head.”

It seemed an age before Alfred even moved.  Then, slowly, he pulled his Colt from its holster.  He cocked it, holding it down at his side.  How ironic that the weapon that Arthur always thought would kill him by accident would be his undoing.  “Hold it to my head,” Arthur repeated more forcefully.  “Do it.”

As if compelled, Alfred raised the gun.  Arthur stared down the barrel, feeling his pulse begin to quicken.  “Alfred, pull the trigger.”

“I told you I would never hurt you,” Alfred whispered, as his hand trembled.  “I swore, I wouldn't.  But... I can't stay here.”

“I know,” Arthur murmured.  He closed his eyes, ready to face whatever realm he had eluded for far too long.  “Goodbye Alfred.”

He heard the click-clack of metal, the sound of the hammer cocking.

Arthur whispered, “I love-”

The gunshot exploded, ringing into the forest.


	3. Epilogue

Alfred Jones woke up to a world of pain.

Disorientation nearly overwhelmed him, making the bright blue sky spin like a top.  However, the sharp, hot bite of metal against his sternum quickly brought his attention to a single focal point.  He was staring down the barrel of a rifle, the two hollows staring at him like the empty eyes of a skull.  His blue eyes flicked up, seeing the black silhouette above him.

Memory rushed back into him.  He'd deserted the Rangers, disregarded orders to go AWOL, just because of a single face he'd seen by chance leaving a saloon.  A face that had burned itself forever into his mind, no matter how much it aged.  A face rimmed in fire and smoke, with the sneer that he'd worn to brutalize his mother over and over again.  Right before he killed her.

“Coulson,” he hissed, with bloody spittle.  His blue eyes lit with fire.  A hatred he could hardly control filled him, making the gunshot to his shoulder feel like a pinprick.

“Heard ye were looking for me,” Coulson smiled greasily, cocking his rifle.  “Well, ye found me.”

He'd been caught unawares.  Coulson had snuck up on him while he had dozed off, taken his guns and shot him.  It was stupid, _fatal._  He had no way to defend himself.  Nothing short of Divine intervention would save him.  He fisted his hand and suddenly realized there was a heavy familiar weight in it.

He had... the Colt in his hand.

Counter memories surged, threatening to overcome him.  But he had no time to think.  Death stared him in the face. He stared back.  He raised the gun, just in time to see Coulson’s eyes widen, and fired.

Coulson went down like a rag doll, ambushed by the gun that wasn't and then suddenly _was._ The body slumped right on top of him, as the rifle fell uselessly off to the side.  Alfred let out a _whumph_ , his already aggravated injury smarting all the worse for having a corpse on top of it.

Oh, but what a sweet pain it was.

Groaning, Alfred slowly pulled himself out from under Coulson’s dead body.  He still wasn't quite sure where he was.  But he felt the dirt of the plains underneath his forearm.  He looked around and saw not much of anything.  That was the problem with Texas.  Lots of it was just whole lots of nothing.

Panting sharply, he pulled himself up to a sit and took stock of the injury in his shoulder.  A bullet wound.  He'd have to take it out before it became infected.  He supposed he should be grateful Coulson didn't have a shotgun.  Tugging away the coat from his bare flesh, it was only then that he noticed a knot of bright blue ribbon tangled in his fingers.  Frowning, he shook it off and tended to his wound, taking out the slug and pouring what little whiskey he had over it.  He tore some of Coulson's shirt away and used it as a makeshift bandage.

Then he looked around, breathing harshly as he tried to reconcile the two realities he now knew.

Had _any_ of it had been real?  Had Arthur - sweet, fiery Arthur - just been a figment of his imagination?  Had his last months in that other wild world all been a lie?  He looked to Coulson’s dead body beside him and suddenly nothing ever seemed so meaningless _._

His vision began to swim, his eyes watering with tears.  A sob choked his throat and he cried for the first time since he'd knelt on the blood soaked earth of Antietam.

Eventually, Alfred had to get ahold of himself.  The desert was ruthless to those that didn't know how to take action.  With nothing else to do, he gathered his things and saddled up Coulson's horse.  His own had disappeared to who knew where.  He knew where, but it was painful to admit it.  He rode for days, trying to remember he'd been gone for just two weeks and not several months.  His company would still be on a scout and not back at headquarters.

True enough, the Texas Rangers were right where they ought to be, according to one half of his minds.  The wind whipped at their canvas tents, men gathering around to play cards and drink off-duty.  Soon as one of them spotted him, they all stopped and turned to stare.  He ignored them and instead rode up to his Lieutenant’s command.

“Sir,” he saluted Lt. Ned, as he approached.  Lt. Ned was a hard but fair commander.  Didn't take bullshit for nothing from his men.  Alfred used to be one of his best.  Used to be.

Lt. Ned glared as he approached, chomping down the end of a cigar.  He never lit them, but he liked the taste of the tobacco.  “Where the fuck were you, Jones!” he demanded, slamming a hand on top of the desk in front of his tent.

“Sir, you wouldn't believe me if I told you,” Alfred replied in all honesty.

“Don't give me that bull, Jones!” the lieutenant snapped impatiently at him. “You were supposed to get in touch with the Tonkawa eight days ago and intercept the Comanche raiders!  We lost thirty men causea you!  Now, I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and believe you were dead, but then I heard from the boys that you caught sight of some bounty and then tore off!”

“He weren't just no bounty, sir,” Alfred said, as calmly as he could, “He was the soldier who occupied my farm during the war.  He had all my brothers killed and then had the other soldiers rape my mother every night.  He killed her right in front of me, sir.  Right when I come home from the war.  And right before he burned my family farm to the ground.”

Lt. Ned took a moment to digest this.  He was not without reason or without sympathy.  However, he shook his head, “Jones, if you had a problem like that, you shoulda come to me instead of tearing off on your own.  You know we'd take care of it.”

“I only saw him once.  I couldn't take the chance of losing him,” Alfred replied.

“That was a chance you shoulda taken.  Especially when so many of your brothers paid for their lives for it.”  Lt. Ned shook his head.  “You know that I can't keep you.”

With a nod, Alfred took his badge and placed it on top of the wooden table.  “I figured as much.  Should be thankful yer not court martialing me.”

“The type of man that needs court martialing, ain’t the type to come in to turn in their badge,” Lt. Ned gruffed.  He took Alfred’s hand, giving it a firm shake.  “Jus’ hope that you don’t have any regrets.”  Not noticing the flicker of pain across the Virginian’s face, he went on, “So, what are you going to do now?  Herding cattle?  Could put in a good word with my brother.”

Alfred shook his head.  Even if he wanted to, it wouldn't last.  Progress was coming by way of the railroad.  Everyone knew it.  The West he knew would soon be gone.  “Think I’ll wander for a bit.  Clear my head.”  He shook the lieutenant’s hand again, parting from the company that had been home for six whole years.  Yet it wasn’t the loss of his fellow Rangers that weighed heavily on him, but a different loss altogether.  He took his horse east, heading into the sunrise.

It took longer than he would have liked, but finally Alfred his way back to Lacanshire.  He'd passed through London, which was as black and foul as passing through the sulphur gates of Hell.  He did not stay long, though much of him worried that the rest of it would be too much changed.

It seemed he didn’t need to worry.  Once he was there and tread on hills oh so familiar, the reality hit him like a sledgehammer.  Until then, it seemed as though his months in the past had been a fiction in his mind.  He circled around the hills like he had two centuries before, getting his lay of the land and seeing how villages had transformed into thriving little towns.  Otherwise, the pastures and farms seemed to have been plucked from one age to another, though people wore more sensible clothes.

At last, he found the courage to find his way to Kirkland Hall.  It was unrecognizable to him.  At some point in time, the old hall had been completely demolished and some three story brick manor thrown up in its place.  He did not bother to go to the door.

Then he finally wandered to St. Helene’s in Kirkland village, although they called it Churchtown now.  It had been around in the time before, but Art never did get around to taking him to Church.  Wondering what the English gentleman would think of his going now, he headed there to walk the grounds.

The whole area was quiet, as most people were off to work in the middle of the day.  He was able to explore the church completely alone, looking at the plaque honoring the sole victim of the Black Death.  The churchyard was just as quiet, leaving him in just the company of yew trees and the lonely dead.  Looking of course for one name in particular.

Though it had faded from two hundred years of exposure, the faint letters of ARTHUR KIRKLAND glared up at him.  Alfred knelt down before the grave, a sharp unyielding pain pressing against his heart like stone.  “Oh God, Art,” he breathed, tracing his bare fingers against the engraving.  He pressed his brow against the cool stone, his voice shaking as he whispered, “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

“I say, what on Earth are you doing?” a voice called behind him, jerking Alfred out of his gripping despair.  The gunman whirled up to his feet, spinning around to face the other visitor.  His heart nearly gave at the sight of him.

The slender young Brit, dressed in a fine black and grey suit and top hat, stood afar from him, carrying a well worn notebook.  He sported choppy blond hair, a few shades lighter than it should be, and his nose and jaw were not quite right.  Yet the green eyes and the disapproving glare were all Arthur.

Alfred stared for longer than was polite, when the young man coughed again.  “And you are...?” he asked, canting an eyebrow.

Recovering, the gunman tipped his hat and said politely, “Howdy.  Name’s Alfred Jones.”

At once, the disapproval evaporated, those green eyes sparkling with excitement.  “A Yank!  Are you... Are you a _cowboy_ ?  You must be, you have the hat and boots and everything.  I've heard such _stories_ of the Wild West.  Have you fought Indians?  Discovered gold?  Fought in gunfights?”

Alfred had absolutely no idea what to say to that.  For one because he was plain _wrong_ about him being a cattle herder and what they did.  Second, his similarity to Art was jarring.  “Uh, sure,” he said, thinking he’d correct the other man later.  More pressing matters were at hand.  “Sorry, I didn’ go an’ step on yer ancestor’s grave, did I?”

“As a matter of fact, you have,” the young Brit replied, stepping past Alfred to look upon the grave.

 **ARTHUR** **  
****de KIRKLAND** **  
**1632 - 1698  
_What hath night_ _  
_ _to do with sleep?_

“I never could figure out why he had a quote from Paradise Lost engraved on his stone,” the young man remarked.  “All my research indicates that he was a Royalist, whereas Milton was never a truer Republican.”  He cast a smile over his shoulder at the gunman, before the rest of him turned to hold out a hand to shake.  “Pardon my manners.  I forgot to introduce myself.  Arthur Kirkland Butler.  Pleasure to meet you.”

Alfred nodded, giving the hand a faint shake.  He was far too distracted by the doppelganger that appeared before him.

“Alfred Jones...” Arthur B. mused, tapping a finger to his lips.  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything of this chap would you?”  He gestured to a grave nearby and Alfred was dumbfounded he hadn’t noticed it before.  He had been so intent on finding Arthur, his eyes had skipped over it.

 **ALFRED** **  
****JONES**  
        - 1654  
_Beloved_

“Yeah, I’d say I know a lot about that fella,” Alfred allowed, his throat growing tight.  He wondered if the grave was empty or if there was a gruesome gunshot fairy-double buried there.  He hoped it was empty.  That there wasn’t a body for Art to mourn over.

Arthur B. smiled.  “What an excellent coincidence!  Are you in town long?  I would love to have a chat with you about your family history.”

The gunman regarded him for a long moment.  He was no longer a Ranger.  The object of his revenge was dead.  He had nothing waiting for him.  And here was Art’s progeny, his kin.  Come to him like a sign from God, or whatever Devil took him there and back again.  Alfred took off his hat and gave a short bow of his head.  “I'm here as long as you need me,” he replied, watching those green eyes widen, “I'm yer new bodyguard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> Rebellion: The History of England from James I to the Glorious Revolution by Ackroyd, Peter, 2014  
> https://www.amazon.com/Rebellion-History-England-Glorious-Revolution/dp/1250003636 
> 
> Horrible Histories: Slimy Stuarts by Deary, Terry, 2011  
> https://www.amazon.com/Horrible-Histories-Stuarts-Terry-Deary-ebook 
> 
> An Encyclopedia of the History of Technology by McNeil, Ian, 1990  
> https://www.amazon.com/Encyclopedia-Technology-Routledge-Companion-Encyclopedias 
> 
> A description of the Western Islands of Scotland by Martin, Martin, 1719  
> https://archive.org/details/descriptionofwes00mart
> 
> The London Literary Gazette - March 1824, page 172  
> https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=nyp.33433085032278;view=2up;seq=182;size=200
> 
> The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies by Kirk, Robert, 1691  
> http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/sce/index.htm
> 
> The Supersizers Go... [ep. Restoration, ep. Elizabethan]  
> http://www.hulu.com/the-supersizers-go
> 
> Townships: Kirkland - A History of the County of Lancaster: Volume 7. Originally published by Victoria County History, London, 1912.  
> http://www.british-history.ac.uk/vch/lancs/vol7/pp313-315
> 
> Robert Kirk was a pretty fascinating person. He was a Scottish minister who tried to use the existence of invisible spirits (such as fairies and the Second Sight) to prove the legitimacy of stories about angels and visions in the Bible. His work was aided by Robert Boyle (as in, the scientist who discovered Boyle's law). His work on fairies was not published until Sir Walter Scott picked it up and published it in 1815.


End file.
